In the Lengthening Shadow
by gawainthegreen
Summary: Legolas and Aragorn become lost in the wilderness of Middle Earth. When Aragorn is captured Legolas must travel to the brink of the shadow to find him, but will he be too late?
1. I

**IN THE LENGTHENING SHADOW**

**(I)**

**Gathering Shadow**

Legolas knew they were lost when the ranger lay with his ear to the floor, a shadow passing the contours of his worried face. "I hear nothing Legolas" he claimed, "…naught, not even the river, and we should be close right now. How came we to be so far from our tracks." Legolas turned, resting his sharp eyes on the tracks behind them, willing his vision to trace through the mist and vivid leaves a way back to the road. Alone and in unknown woods, it did not bode well for the two. Even Legolas could not know every inch of the wiry paths that raggedly clung to the sides of the mountains and he cursed himself for not looking further, and for forgetting that acute awareness so essential to the core of his being. He had been enjoying the warm, life-giving sun, so rare a sight under the darkening eaves of Mirkwood that it would sometimes seem but a dream. But then the mist had come, swirling through the air like a swarm of bees, enfolding them, losing them within its ever widening darkness, absorbing them in its thick contours, like ice the trees melted into the grey and the land took on unfamiliar apparel.

Aragorn turned and leant his back against the tree that thrust its wiry curling branches through the darkness of the fog, leading the ranger's back to its wide trunk. A look of weariness and anxiety brushed his face and he leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes in thought, eyebrows locked in a worried frown. Legolas, perturbed by the dim sight of his friend deep in thought, made his way over, the sharp twigs under his feet clicking and snapping even under the weight of an elf. He felt as if he were announcing his presence to the entire forest. As he reached him, he laid his warm hand on Aragorn's shoulder, looked into his eyes, "What troubles you my friend." "I hear nothing," replied the ranger; a bemused smile, worked its way across his face, quickly to be replaced by the same dark look of anxiety, "not even the birds wish to continue nesting in this dark place today." The elf stood in the all encompassing silence and agreed, he could even hear the quickened sound of the ranger's uneasy heartbeat, and he clearly had a bad feeling. The silence worried him also, his all too sensitive hearing picked up nothing but the sound of the twigs that trembled under his friend's feet. It worried him, but there seemed nothing to do, where could they go if they were lost? What could they do if the woods had decided to turn against them?

"We should make camp now," advised the elf, as he felt the first drops of heavy rain on his tense shoulders, "There will be no finding our way in this foul mire." The rain felt like a burden, forcing his shoulders to uncharacteristically droop, or so it felt to him. The world seemed perpetually grey and they would get no further tonight. "It is strange," spoke the ranger, "It came upon us so fast, when all around us there has been sunlight." "Aye" whispered the elf and spoke no more but looked towards the heavens as his companion began to lay down his things in silence, his pointed ears gathering every suggestion of noise that surrounded them… but there was nothing. The sun seemed to have no place within this world of shadows. Aragorn thought sourly; perhaps this was a taste of things to come.

As the darkness became ever more oppressive the two sat closely huddled, fending off the cold night air and the looming dread of the starless sky. In their eyes their small fire reflected its flames and they could not warm themselves. Every breath of smoke that lifted itself from the distant orange glow seemed to them an invitation to orcs or raiders. Middle Earth, as it became slowly engulfed in the Shadow of Sauron, seemed the haven for evil, and under the dark trees and under the grey precipices of the mountains it grew in secret, a scar buried deep in the Earth. But as yet there was nothing, still nothing, the birds still hidden within their branches seemed to have forgotten to breathe, and the crackle of the fire seemed to deafen them with its cacophony.

Silently, they slipped into a dreamless void of night, hoping the morning might, however doubtful, bring with it light and life. Carelessly the fire droned on, lending a little comfort to the Ranger's shivering bones as he sat on watch, waiting for the slightest movement in the obscure black holes that represented the bushes that kept them hidden. The gnarled edges of the trees appeared stark, as though they would attack in the grey of his night-vision. Slowly, night crept around them, pushing into the crevices of the trees, and sinking into their pores. Legolas drifted unconsciously into a deep, well needed sleep, devoid of dreams and his mind as black and empty as the air around them. He heard nothing; he saw nothing.

_**Darkness approaches**_

The Elf's bright eyes did not long hide the scene from him, as he awoke, fitfully, from his engulfing sleep. For a moment he felt he had forgotten all, his mind had been so empty, for it seemed as though the world and all his memories had been scraped from within. Coming back from so far his senses seemed dulled; the fog surrounding him entrenched in his thoughts. He remembered the silence first, but what was it he should have heard? There was nothing.

Stretching, then in panic, he realised he had slept too long, he should have begun his watch before this, knowing that Aragorn had not slept properly for days, and needed more sleep than he did. Yesterday exhaustion had hit the man and his body, so strong in comparison to those of his fellow men, filled with the power of the west of Numenor took much longer to succumb, but succumb he nearly had. Perhaps that was where they had erred, they had relied too much on the strength of the man to last, forgetting that though he lived alongside the elves, appearing much of the time indistinguishable his body in the end would fail him, as all human kind.

The silence, even in the eaves of the trees overwhelmed him as he realised he could truly hear nothing… not even…. no it was not possible… the ranger's heartbeat was missing, and he could not hear the regular breathing or slight movement, only evident to sensitive ears such as his. Even Aragorn, who could fade in silence into the shadows, and track for many miles appearing only as a gust of wind behind you in the sound he made could not hide like this, not from his friend. Now wide awake, his eyes searched out his friend's form in the mist and mirk but there was nothing. His heart, trembled and beat faster, giving him a slight feeling of breathlessness, and he was aware of how alone he was in the glade. But… the man could not have disappeared without his awareness… and surely if he had been taken he would have left his weapons. In the dim light, even Legolas eyes, tired as they were struggled painfully to part the shadows. He was gone and there was no sign.

Frightened though he was by the strange turn of events, Legolas, ever cautious, refused yet to leave, to run and panic. If his friend returned and found him gone he would be more concerned, he could not leave Aragorn to the wilds, to fend for himself, it was his job to protect hope, and he intended to do so. Besides it would be folly to move in this heavy, crushing darkness, he could be further lost and even an elf would see naught. He shifted, laid his back against the tree, which had served as the pillow of his friend, allowing the slight twinge of the roots in the back to force his mind to stay awake. His lamp like eyes watched the empty darkness and he listened, waiting for first, light. But he did not remember, he did not remember when they came.

**Dawn**

The world was black, then there were flashing, blurred colours, as though he had squinted for too long…. And then it was black again.

As a wave of conscious thought hit him Aragorn writhed with pain, thoughts shouldn't feel like this, but his brain seemed to have been shaken inside his head. His vision blurred and he felt as lost as he had in the forest; lost within his own motionless body. His head seemed to float somewhere detached from his spine and he could not orient himself. Trying to move his hands, he winced with pain, as he found them tied cruelly behind his back, the ropes burned and he let them droop. Somehow he forced his eyes to focus and found himself kneeling in the half light, his waist, hands and feet constricted tightly by ropes that ground into his skin and burned when he moved. His head was fuzzy and the pain pounded his brains until he saw only colours. His back ached viciously and there was nothing for him to lean against… where was his tree? Where was his friend? As he slowly focused through the pain, he found he could not recognise the hidden grove in which he now swayed. He was surrounded by menacing bushes that seemed to have crowded round him, but not for protection. Instead their thorns pointed menacingly into the centre of the thicket, forcing him into the middle. He was alone. Legolas was gone…. Had he left him, straining his aching head to remember Aragorn knew he had no recollection of whither lay his friend. Of one thing he was certain, Legolas had always vowed to protect the life of the hope of Middle Earth and Aragorn had placed the volume of trust in the protection and friendship of his loyal companion.

The pain in his head throbbed, as though he had been held under water for too long and he could not quite catch his breath. In thirst, his tongue explored his lips, hoping for any sign of moisture, what it found was the bite of cloth cutting off his breath, it tasted slightly of metal and he suspected the gag to be covered in blood.

Finding himself so totally alone, his body aching from his bonds, unexplainably sharply in his left side, Aragorn tried, in panic, to flee. All he felt; was a tightening of his constraints, the knots forcing themselves ever further into his skin, scarring his wrists and constricting his breathing. The heir of Isildur, a solitary ranger, had for most of his adult life wandered the Earth, searching for the spreading evil, the lengthening shadow released by the return of Sauron but this was a different kind of alone, he had no control, no power…, in this state what could he do? The surge of panic and jerked movement caused his vision to blur again, and the screen of pain within his head, slowly reclaimed his senses. He heard a noise behind him, tried to turn, gasped from the pain in his side and fell back into the void of darkness.

**Lost **

Pushing back the branches that threatened to carve his skin, the branches that seemed intent on hampering his movement, Legolas moved forwards, breathtakingly slowly. He had not been meant to find his way through these trees. Perhaps even they had formed an alliance against him, the stubborn branches refusing to be pushed aside.

The morning had arrived and there was nothing; no sign of his friend; no whisper in the trees of his movement. In the grim light of the haggard day (morn had not come without a struggle) he had seen for the first time the scars within the Earth; the scars that told the tale of a midnight struggle, yet one of which he had no recollection. He still felt slightly drugged from his sleep the night before and could not understand why he should remember nothing. And then he had seen it, the sight, which sank to his heart like a stone, the sight which had caused a cry of pain to be released from his lips: there was blood smeared on the roots and in the grass. The struggle, it seemed, had not come without its penalties. When the thought came that he had simply slept through this, a lump welled up in his throat of such magnitude, that he thought he might never breathe again. He swallowed hard and forced the lump away. A tear swam in the corner of his eye, threatening to leave a tell tale mark down his cheek and for a moment he stood in an awed silence unable to comprehend the sound.

As he tried to retrieve the events of the previous night from his mind, he realised, that his body had been carried, across the thicket. He had woken, finding himself behind the tree, against which the Ranger had begun his watch, a tree that stood on the far side of the thicket, forced into darkness by the shadow of its taller companions. He wondered how, he had been moved from one side to the other, tracing his steps he saw no sign that he had been dragged, but the footprints in the soft Earth were those of the ranger. But why should his friend move him? Had he felt himself in danger surely the man would have woken him, Aragorn was not foolish enough to face enemies alone, if he had help at his side. The elf also knew how strong loyalty ran in the veins of the man; time and again he had proved he would never leave a companion in danger.

Above his head, the sun, finally deciding to overcome the mist crawled sluggishly into the sky, illuminating the scene and the situation before the elf. Wandering across the thicket in disbelief and grief, tears threatened once more to blur his vision, when, underneath the tree, where began his night's sleep, Legolas spied a glint of glass, only visible in the new revealing light of the cold sun. For, this sun, offered no warming comfort to the traveller, but mocked instead those who stood under it at such an early hour as it slowly exposed before them the secrets of the mist and the night. Walking slowly over, Legolas discovered with surprise a glass vial, containing a dark liquid. Leaning against the tree, he noted in sudden wonder a pain in his right hand and looking down, noted a small cut, and around it, faint but visible; a dark smudge.

Now he ran, ran away from the light and the morning, following the trail the blood had began, his keen eyes no longer blurred and tired by sleep, he began his search…. He had already wasted too much time.

**Bound**

With a slight groan, Aragorn found himself, kicked backwards into consciousness, and the slicing pain in his side became more vivid. His knees, tied as they were, found themselves knocked out from underneath him and his head hit the hard ground, forcing the blurred vision back to his eyes. He had been untied from the tree it would seem, and he saw red. He focused through the grinding pain and noticed dark figures dancing before him, yet they seemed to have no features.

Grimacing he tried to lift himself, the agony in his side slowing him, his vision swam and he felt a boot on his cheek holding him down. Aragorn found his face on the floor, and blood in his view. The voice that spoke from his faceless tormentor, sounded foreign, cold and harsh. "Try to move, and I will cut you even deeper, I never run after a prisoner twice. I do not think you will move far today." The laughter which followed was cruel and mocking, the ranger's throbbing head forcing it to a distance, like an echo, or perhaps that was merely his wishes. The foot left his face and moved back into the crowd. Fighting to cling to consciousness, Aragorn bit his lip and looked around him as far as his position would allow. He inched himself forward, but the pain in his side stopped him, as he hit a merciless twig, which dug into the obvious wound. He gasped once more, as another wave of spiking, piercing pain, thrust itself through the wound. In fear he tried to stop himself, but now, at least for a second he seemed to have lost their attention.

For the first time in two days he seemed surrounded by the flurry of noise, but the absence of nature's song remained a constant. The men, as men they seemed to be, were clothed in black and around their faces were wrapped cloths of dark material. All that could be seen was the violence of their eyes. Aragorn shivered and remembered the eyes that he had found looking down on him, dark and empty they seemed, yet, what was a man without a soul?

In the centre of the bush circle, there seemed to be a debate, a fierce one – and knives were raised. Who knew what was happening? Aragorn would have understood little of the language, even had he been able to concentrate through the pain. He knew that fear could not help him now and vowed to be bold, and yet he feared for the fate of his friend, but had no recollection of how he had been captured.

Thirst now overwhelmed the ranger. The sun, hidden for so long, had now come upon them with full force and its effects poured over the prisoner as he drifted between unconsciousness and waking. The heavy blood loss which seemed to pour unrepentantly from the wound in his side, was slowly stealing his thoughts, numbing his mind, soon he would remember nothing.

From his stale slumber, Aragorn felt the foot return. "Untie him," spoke the voice, but not to him. His face pushed to the floor, he saw yet nothing of his captor apart from the cruel black leather of his boots. Forcing his eyes to focus on the folds as oblivion and painless sleep threatened once more to take him Aragorn tried to speak, only to find a foot pressed on the wound in his side. "There will be time enough for weakness and speech later." Pain welled through him, and Aragorn jerked in pain, and drew his knees towards himself. He could feel himself becoming weaker as the blood loss became more intense. He did not wish to die today.

The foot was removed and the face came into focus as the bonds around he knees were cut. He looked up and noted several pairs of boots now surrounding him. "It will not do to have him collapsing on the journey," spoke one faceless form. So they did not mean to kill him? (At least not yet) Carefully one of them knelt down, lifted up the man's tunic and removed something from his side. Aragorn felt another gush of blood, greater than before. He strained to view what they had removed and saw that in their hands lay a small dagger coated in his blood, which had been left within his side. In panic he realised it must have been there for quite some time, if he was not to die he should be treated at once, for infection would set in fast. He already felt the first shivers of a fever within his tired frame.

Within minutes he felt cold hands on his skin, skin that burned with the fever of his injury. Aragorn lay frantic in the knowledge that they intended to move him… and infuriated by his weakness in the face of the injuries he had sustained. He wished to fight, but knew neither where his sword lay, or wherein lay the strength to move His mind, still battling for consciousness, worked only within and he felt powerless in the face if this opposition. The cold hands began to quench the bleeding. Aragorn closed his eyes through the sting that followed. He felt a salve being added and then he was rolled over to apply a bandage.

Whilst in great discomfort, he realised at least this temporary healing might give him a chance to regain some power… shifting himself between their feet he tried to role. The boot came back sharp and fast. The foreign and harsh language began again, merciless in the ranger's ears. Then he felt a scratch on his hand and the pressure of cloth... and the world returned to darkness.

**Nowhere left to hide: **

Legolas had run, following the trail of slightly trampled grass and smell of fear for many hours now, yet was certain he was no closer to finding them. All of a sudden he noticed a green glint under a tree, in the sunlight it shone like the grass. He knelt down to look. It was the ring of Barahir, the ring given to Aragorn, by Lord Elrond when he had told him of his past; the ring which proved Aragorn's identity as the heir of Isildur. A sob escaped his mouth, as he realised the meaning of this; he knew his friend would not let the ring go unless, he was in mortal danger, or it had been stolen from, him. On the roots of the tree, next to the dent where had found the ring, there lay a small smattering of blood. Perhaps he had rested here? Perhaps he had died here, Legolas knew not. He cursed the lack of memory from which he still suffered. In his mind the gap lay like a void, he could see it vast and empty between the pattern of the night before, and he seemed caught up in the fog. He had run for many miles and was exhausted, seeming no nearer to achieving his aim.

He took the ring and placed it carefully within his tunic, close to his heart. If it was all that remained of Estel he would return it to Lord Elrond, though hope might be gone. Finally, fatigue would allow the elf to move no more. He still remained slightly sluggish, from what he now believed to be a drug induced stupor. He sat at the base of the tree where he had found the ring and rested his eyes.

The silence in the air once again overwhelmed him, he did not understand these woods, it seemed as though nature had been drained, and all that was left was the trees. And then… then there was something. He heard a drumbeat in the distance, the sound of orcs rapidly approaching. The bare branches of the trees would barely hide him, and the elf felt he had nowhere to run. Doing therefore, all that was left to him, Legolas strung his bow, and waited.

Suddenly they burst upon the grove, wherein the elf was hiding. He knew he could not long conceal his hiding place, and it was his duty, if he could to rid Middle Earth of the foul creatures, who once upon a time might have been his brothers. Seeing the debased creatures always brought with it a pang of sorrow for Legolas as he remembered from whence they had come. They moved, slowly and noisily across the ground, their feet gouging holes in the soft Earth, scarring the land with the evil of Sauron, they none of them cared for living things.

Finally one began to move towards him. With a twang, Legolas released his first arrow, finding the temple of the Orc and hitting true. There was no place left to hide now. Running forward, his knives ablaze, the elvish warrior had only one end in mind. He sliced through skin like leather, releasing the dark blood from the prison like bodies. Within half an hour, he was fatigued almost to a faint and all the orcs lay dead. Turning from the bloody scene Legolas turned to walk away. He felt a knock on the back of his head, and his last thoughts were of the death of his friend.

**Beyond the End of my world**

Christina Rosetti

All he seemed to remember now was pain, the trampling of feet and the bumps in the road. The daily drug administered to the ranger, left him fighting for memory. Most of the time there were shapes, some he recognised and thought he trusted, others seemed memories of darkness, of thrashing pain. Having proved that he would not remain obedient when trusted to walk, the dose had been increased, and he spent most of his time in a deep and dark oblivion; a hell, created by his own mind, and the pain that was thrust upon him. He woke only to find himself slung across the back of the horse. The pain in his side was still unbearable. His captors seemed to have realised that blood loss weakened the will and sapped his strength. The wound was now openly infected again, being deep and harsh and given no chance to heal. The ranger was running out of time and his body knew it. His hands, still bound behind his back could do nothing to quench the blood flow, with which drained also his life. As life ebbed, so did his will to live and even in his darkened dreams his body begged for release.

When Aragorn awoke the land had changed. No longer was he surrounded by the lush green, darkness of the forest shade. Here there were few trees; they seemed to fear to grow. The land was barren; almost sunless, almost lifeless in its extremity. It was a view that Aragorn would not forget, although he was to claw for all other memories. This was the bare and ruined land of the Morannon, the gate of Mordor, although the ranger did not know it yet. But he did notice the heat, the stifling air, and the sense of evil that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. Even in his stupor he sensed a world at odds.

Summoning his strength and raising his head slightly, Aragorn looked into the gloom of the distance and was shocked and horrified by what he saw, there ahead of him stood the black gate, beyond lay Ered Gorgoroth, the 'Mountains of fear', and the dread land of Mordor, even within his daze Aragorn's wrecked body shivered and pleaded to be taken no further towards the darkness and the evil that began to encroach upon his soul.

As they marched towards it, towards oblivion and death, the great gate started to swing open; Aragorn could hear the creak of the unused hinges. Beyond stood darkness and death, and yet the group of corsairs marched ever onwards, towards the night and the might of Sauron. Finally they stepped through it…. And slowly the great gate began to swing closed.


	2. II

**In the Lengthening Shadow – chapter 2**

**(II)**

**Estel – hope**

**Prologue: **

Legolas woke, his tunic saturated with rain, a wild rain, that washed all in its path and he had to climb to the trees for safety. The Orc, who now lay dead at his feet, putrid blood staining itself into the green of his tunic, a sour reminder of the word turned to shadow, had released him from conscious thought for many hours. He wanted to continue his journey, knew he should not waste a second following the trail of those who must have captured his friend and yet there would be no following the trail like this. The wind howled ruthlessly and he feared he would be lost. He shivered for comfort, but the branches would barely support him, as he clung to them through the gale. This was no place to make his rest and live out the storm. Shattered, the elf climbed down from the tree and fighting the wind and with the rain lashing into his face he stepped forth into the onslaught. His progress was slow, the mud would swirl around his feet and the wind tried to knock him back. Eventually he saw a gap under a hedge; he climbed under and hoped that he would not be drowned. Once there he covered himself with his elven cloak, that none who looked might see him and fell into a fretful sleep.

When he woke, the sun was gentle, not bold and burning, it peeped over the edges of the trees as if to apologise. Everything had been washed away in the storm. There seemed to the elf no trace of the trail of his companion. He knelt on the uneven ground, his knees sinking in to the soft soil, lifted his hands to his face, and groaned in despair; even his eleven senses would no longer help him. Grief took his heart and he began to wander, he knew not where, until looking up towards the lengthening shadows, evening began to seep between the tops of the trees, and the day began to steal away.

As dark approached Legolas realised his folly, and thinking only of the danger of being found on the ground, he climbed into the trees for comfort. The gentle breeze rocked him, allowing him the little comfort it could offer. In the rocking wind, he slept, deep, but filled with dreams and not with the dreaded emptiness, which had permeated his past night's slumber. His sleep was clean. He dreamt of Estel, they were at Rivendell, surrounded by the beauty of the last Homely House; Estel reached out to him, took his hands and guided him.

Legolas woke determined not to forget. He would follow his thoughts, and his dreams now nothing else would do. His light slumber spoke to him that Aragorn lay yet within the land of the living. How he knew not, but there was reason to hope, and that was all that was left to him at this moment. Legolas climbed down from the tree, stared into the morning and followed his heart.

**Beyond the Black Gate**

Life beyond the stark imprisonment of the black gate brought pain to the very thoughts of living beings, for those who lived miles from the edges of Mordor, the shadow grew in their hearts; for those trapped within the land of shadow themselves, bitter was the life they must now lead.

Having been carried through the gate, the sense of advancing evil had overcome Aragorn and he had trembled with fear, unusual in the ranger, in his weakness there was little else to do. Even, with little sight, and less recollection, he knew whence it was he was carried. His skin felt it; the creeping shiver, the dark tinge to the bare white flesh which drifted with terrifying speed across the body, perhaps it was the ash, perhaps it spoke of the shadow, which lay here waiting and watching. The land of Mordor spoke fear into the hearts of those who were carried there and the dust covered roads, where ash spat into the eyes as they fought for moisture and reflected the dense shadow and loss of hope that engulfed the soul. Having been brought thus far, and so sedated Aragorn remembered little but the daily toil of waking, dragging himself into consciousness and being surrounded by the dying foliage and Earth that bordered Mordor. In panic his soul begged the release that death would bring, the very air of this land, so bent on malice and shadow it was, would do worse than to kill him and he longed to leave. Pain had become his only memory. He did not remember a day that blood had not clung to his ragged clothes, or that he had not been kicked or beaten for the natural sluggishness prompted by the wreck of his failing body. Most of the time he felt he was falling, only to find himself jolted to his knees or to his feet by the threatening hands, dark in their gloves, that refused to carry him. Only the strength of the Dunedain that lay within him kept him from slipping into the darkness, forcing life upon him, even against his will and opposed to the loss of his memory.

Forced now to walk, as the horses had been taken, and his captors would not carry him, Aragorn found himself not alone, but surrounded by equally dejected, terrible figures. Their faces appeared haunted across with the grim cruelty of their experience. Eyes, that never left the floor seemed now dead from the sparkle of humanity, and the spirits, which might once have fought seemed to have left their bodies, the shells left alone on the Earth to endure the degradation and the gnawing evil; the entrapment, which the shadow required. What was this place and why were these people gathered thus? Within his tortured mind and scattered memories Aragorn could not recollect the possibilities, his memory was sore with visions of endless trudging and the evil that came to his dreams, was more than his sleeping soul could bear. He almost preferred the dark trance of his moments of wakefulness. His dreams were filled with fire and emptiness.

Even drugged within a stupor and in the last stages of his life, (as he thought), Aragorn knew he was not as they… spirit vivacious and strong lived alongside the fear in his eyes, and though he knew or recollected little of life before the shadow, he knew he should not be there and so he fought. He fought for freedom and light, refusing the ties which bound his so mercilessly, constricting his very veins he would run, if they did not hold him, even as the blood ran smoothly down his back in rivulets. His tongue alone, desperate for liquid, dry it felt, beyond the rocks of a river in drought, as though covered with the sand of the desert, held him at the very least bound to his captors; there was no water unless they administered. In this filthy land even the water begged for escape.

The oppressive drug, with which they had first overcome him, the smell of which, like tar burned within his nostrils and threatened to drag the contents of his stomach from his body, was administered in smaller doses now and yet to Aragorn, the tiny pinprick of the needle within the coarse skin of his hand, burned like ash of Mordor against his dry tongue, then they would draw out some of his blood and rub into his hand a dose of the deadening drug. He dreaded the deadening of his senses that it anticipated, preferring the sharp focus that the pain of daily movement brought; in darkness there was nothing….

For the sake of his desperation he had been whipped mercilessly, until convinced they would wish him dead he had sunk to the floor, the heap of his bones falling from one another, until blood leaked from his back, his sides, until lines deep as gullies scarred themselves across his chest. The cool drip soothed the dents that felt as though they reached his lungs and his cries, initially shameful to him, spoke to the ranger only of his continuing existence; while he screamed he lived. If only the flow would allow his life with it. In ruins his body demanded the mercy of passing on and cruelly its own strength denied it this escape, but inside his mind was on fire and Aragorn fought for the shape of the memories to answer the question – wherefore should he have lived?.

**An Oblivious Prayer**

As unconsciousness had released him for the time into oblivion, where the evil seeped only into his dreams, Aragorn's captors stood over the prostrate body, fallen against a rock at the roadside, hands bound together in front as though in prayer. The empty eyes slithered over the thinning body like snakes, taking in the contours, the strong sinews of the muscles and the noble, forthright forehead, taking in his difference, the strange air of power and torment, which clung to the body even in sleep.

Rishdak, the strongest of the men, whose swarthy skin, thicker than leather seemed to absorb the evil that flowed through the very ash on the roads and, whose mission it had become to keep hold of the young ranger, was become tired of the man. How could he control a heart so wild? No matter how weak he became, or how bitter his treatment, a renewed flame seemed to live in the man's spirit which they could not control, nor force to decay by rough treatment. If he was conscious the man was a liability. He growled viciously at his companions in anger; anger at his mission; anger the relentless strength of his captive. They should kill him now and be done.

He had slowed them considerably; firstly: they had drugged him so as to take all power from his limbs; therefore they must carry him across Middle Earth, until his limbs had become a burden for Rishdak. A body so strong, was worthy for the hard labour of the lidless eye, most slaves lasted not beyond a few weeks, when they felt their tormented spirits take wings, to release them from the dreaded nightmare of toil. Hard labour the could live with, the very evil they were forced to breathe, the rod of their captor's iron against their skin, only the strongest, though deadened inside, would survive. Though their demise mattered not to the iron minds of their overseers, it had been therefore necessary to bring many more slaves, sometimes more than it was possible to collect. As the shadow crept into the minds of men, they tended to stay closer to their towns or villages, hunting in groups, clinging to the sinews of companionship in the dark hours. Few ranged alone as this man.

Once again the man's behaviour, his feverish desperation to escape, his insolent determination to refuse subjection, had forced them to stop. "He lies near death…" muttered the grim voice of the Corsair, deep like a chasm of putrid water, rough as the stubble on his cheeks. "We cannot carry on like this. If we leave him he will die. If we wait to tend him, we shall be further days delayed. This one's life is not worth the loss we are making." There was a murmur of dark agreement. Others too felt the strain the relentless strength of the ranger, his utter determination and refusal to be broken had caused. They worked to keep him with them, either in his uncooperative behaviour or in tending him as they punished him the limits of his strength. Often they expected he would die; only to find they grey eyes, open and steely, if dulled, waiting for insurrection.

Zuliman, the leader, looked around him at the eyes; dark as the reflections of the cloth they bound around their faces, hiding their mirthless features, and saw the majority, angry to the core. There was a solid, shocking, fire burning in the dark coals of their pupils, and their iron wills appeared as pillars blocking his path, yet not so solid and staunch were they as he. He took in their anger and ignored them. His narrow mind had strayed from his other prisoners now, and even from those with whom he led them, ever deeper into the shadow. With the malice in his mind he saw the hope, the anguish and the fight left in this man, the strength in his gaze and his spirit's ability to outlive the appalling torture of punishment and the drag across this rotten land. He had forgotten the price he might get, instead the life that still danced within the man's eyes, within his thoughts when allowed, he took as a challenge and all he wished was to break the sight, to have the man kneel before him, not in worship, but in fear and submission.

**Endurance**

Aragorn woke to the angry groan of raised voices and wondered why his presence should always heighten their emotions so. Consciousness hit him like a rock and he jolted opening up the freshly covered wounds on his back. Their voices, their language, still fearful to him, gnawed at his senses, as though they were a nail scraped across slate. His eyes would barely open, with the fresh pain of waking. His limbs he found, once more out of his control and his scars burned as though he had been washed with so much acid. He did not know what they wished of him, or where they would take him. All he knew was that he was not the only one they wanted, there were others with him… and yet he had no chance to speak. The painful gag, so constricting, that rubbed the corners of his lips until they bled, and flung his saliva back into his mouth, was once again sliding slightly between his teeth As their notice, for now was on each other, in anger, he took the liberty of looking around him.

The other captives appeared to be strung along one rope, attached to each other, cruel fibre snaking its way around their wrists. Like dominoes they would fall if one fell, fates now harshly intertwined, like the very bind of the rope. They stood in the shadow of the rocks where they had been forced, eyes furtive, watching for any sign their movements were noticed. Most looked down towards the Earth now, as though they carried heavy burdens aloft, forcing their shoulders down towards the ground, heavier than the force of gravity. Shoulders, once proudly erect were bent from being pulled along, retreating from the terror of the whip. Eyes active though spattered with spots of colour as he tried to focus Aragorn tried to see the faces, all seemed grey and haggard as though evil seeped into their skin. Most were men, although at the back of the line were a few cowering women. Not all were strong; his captors, it seemed had taken, all they could find. There were two in particular he placed at no more than seventeen, fair of hair, who might only have begun to wield a sword, their beards still not full upon their faces. They particularly, seemed to huddle together, wide eyed with terror and desperation, as if they could offer some warmth and reminder of the life that they had previously led. It broke the ranger's heart to see such young ones huddled thus, oblivious to what awaited them, their minds already blighted of the light of past memories by the treatment they had suffered, where now lay the sun of their youth. He wished he could speak to them, reach out with some warmth of humanity; show them that even in this dark land hope might live.

There were men who might have been blond and fierce, of Rohan perhaps. Horse Lords of the Rohirrim, or a farmer from the outlying lands. There were some that seemed darker, though still untouched by Sauron's shadow, unlike their captors. They were shorter, swarthier men, without the manners or the life of the men of the west. Then there were those he believed of Gondor, a certain nobler bearing perhaps, not blond as the Rohirrim, but tall with what might have been a noble expression before the dejection and degradation of capture.

A face once more came towards Aragorn, interrupting his short reverie. It was the face of the one that dragged him, the face he most looked upon with fear. A stick crawled towards the closing wounds of his back, connecting with it, poking its way between his spine, finding the knots and the dents in his skin where leather had dug, once more compelling the ranger to jolt, his features in contorted pain. Noticing the movement, and the depth of the grey eyes once more upon him, Rishdak looked into the Ranger's eyes, and Aragorn found a burning hatred in the dark coals, reflected into his face. The man was burning with rage, a rage that his features, (those visible) fiercely exposed. Aragorn, recognised this look now, understanding little of the language, the features spoke a louder and harsher language, signalling that worse might be to come for him. Whatever the outcome of the discussion it could not have been good.

Aragorn felt the familiar agony within the largely unhealed wound in his side throb through him, as the sharp boot connected with the bottom of his rib cage. His chest now seemed to be painted permanently blue and grey, as the sky when the sun was hidden. Like the sky there were many colours hidden there and deep it went. The bruises loomed darker with the passing days and threatening, a stark reminder to the Ranger of what might lay ahead. "Ai Elbereth", he winced, and a moan tore from his constricted lips; "when would it end?"

**Memento Mori**

Legolas did not tire easily, and whilst the sun painted blessed circles of light and warmth upon his back his search was pleasant enough, although his spirits were dampened by the loss of his friend. Yet, in his heart, he believed he would know if Estel was dead, he would have known somehow, even if it was only a slight despair within his heart. The disappearance was inexplicable, but the very fact he himself had not been harmed, but merely drugged, suggested to the elf that perhaps murder had not been the intention. He tried to hope, and in hoping, however unconsciously link some of that hope to his friend, whence he might lie. Perhaps he did not want to believe; the man had come to mean so much to him, proving on every count that the unworthiness of men, so widely regarded between the elves as the noble lines of men had one by one, like stones in a river, fallen into darkness, had in some cases been ill judged. Raised by elves this one would always be different, and yet there was something else in the man. He seemed to force himself to be worthy, and was willing, in his desperation for approval, to destroy the reputation his people had claimed for so long, to sacrifice himself for any cause. Sometimes the elf worried he had so little regard for his own life, considered himself that much lower because of his ancestry, but in doing so raised his line that much higher.

Now he had no trail to follow, Legolas was uncertain of which path to follow, and yet somehow his instincts told him he must drive south, there was something in the air there, some sense which dragged him too, towards the shadow, as it claimed the lands around Mordor and the hearts of man, the shadow longed to encompass more sending out tendrils of evil, to draw life towards it, engulf and annihilate it.

Stopping at nightfall to rest, (he had travelled without it for several days) Legolas took out the ring of Barahir once again and examined it, fingering it, yearning for the finger that was once held therein. He clung to it, as though from it he could reach out and touch Estel. He took his rest now, always within the protection of the trees, the wild branches providing a screen, behind which he could watch, but was given the advantage of sight should an enemy advance. Alone, as he was, he must take all the watch he could, and fatigued, sometime he must run the risk of sleep.

Having finally trusted to the protection of the shades of night, the darkness as a screen saved him from all except those with the most vivid sight, Legolas allowed his mind to sink into the world of dreams, only to be sharply thrust back into the vivid intensity of reality, wakefulness and awareness by a movement on the ground beneath him. As though chilled by a winter breeze, the elf instinctively drew his grey cloak closer around him, as if enacting a protective motion. Perhaps the more he crawled within himself, the less he would be visible. Beneath him he saw with surprise the light of flaming torches, heard the crack of a whip. What folly was this when Orcs were afoot? In the gleaming light, blinding in comparison with the curtain like darkness Legolas saw three figures. One appeared completely in black, a whip in his hand, the others bound, with a look of horror etched into their faces. Legolas drew his bow, felt the tension in the string, and let fly an arrow. He heard the twang of his own bowstring and then held his breath….

End of part II


	3. III

**Part III**

**CHILDREN OF THE WEST**

**When Arrows fly true**

The next thing he heard was the thud of his own arrow, as it burrowed its way within the chest of the man below, flying true towards his heart. Piercing, was the sound of the thud, as it hit with power and fervour, entering only to kill. Blood seeped from the chest of the man, creating rivers of darkness across his already black tunic. Life was draining at an alarming pace. The thud sent a shock wave through the elf as his breath was forced from his body and he felt himself fall slightly forward. In panic he realised what the folly of such action might easily be. He knew not if this man was alone, or if accomplices lay close by, in silence, ready to attack when the moment should arise, when he was most vulnerable. The men in the grove below, still, with fear in the depths of their eyes, jerked their heads around the area, fearfully and newly in the darkness brought on by the death of the torch. Legolas, glad at this moment for the darkness, waited.

When, after five minutes perhaps, in which he did not even allow himself to breathe, in which he slipped into the very shadows of the trees in the moonlight, Legolas began to let the muscles of his body relax. He could not remain in this tree all night. If the men below were in need of help, it would not do to wait for doom to come to them, to allow the man's companions to find them. If they were on the side of evil, they were still bound, he still protected, and there they would remain in either state it would seem until he came to their aid.

Carefully the elf slunk down the slippery lines and contortions of the tree trunk, careful not to make undue noise. Like a squirrel his light feet knew where to tread, and like the Earth the bark seemed solid and real underneath his feet. The leave fluttered, barely noticeably in the breath of breeze the passed through, one next to the ear of the elf and he jumped slightly. Yet despite his darkest fears the breeze brought with it no tell tale signals of those that lay close in wait, arrows poised and swords ablaze. What it brought was more silence. He felt the soft tread of grass beneath the soles of his boots, although in the overwhelming darkness he saw little, and stepping down from the tree he placed both feet securely between the sprouting blades, that did not cut but soothed. Turning, in the narrow light of the moon he watched as the men in front of him trembled slightly, as though awaiting some terrible verdict. Carefully he reached over and released the gags from their mouths. As he did so he felt his knees knocked from underneath him, and he fell noiselessly to the ground.

**Never Enough**

In surprise Legolas had found himself facing his own arrow, the fletchings of which, now darkened with the blood of men, tickled his face slightly. Looking up the elf gazed into the barrenness of his eyes, shocking and blank in their stare, and was reminded of the painful emptiness of his own dreams when he had awoken to find Estel gone. In shock he did not roll away when the man's arms reached for his throat, to end his life, dragging it with him to whichever hellish place he was bound. Bloody hands formed a loop around Legolas' neck and he writhed painfully within the strong grip, now in panic for the tardiness of his actions, fighting, pummelling for breath and life. Now clearly the stronger of the two Legolas released his boot into the stomach of the man. Instinctively his hands move to protect himself and in the moment, flash like though it was the elf sprang up. The man felt the cold edge of silver against the feverish skin of his chest and groaned his surrender.

Legolas brought his mouth close to the man's ear and whispered loud so that his words could not be mistaken. "If you move from this spot, even one inch, I shall cut into your stomach so that you bleed to death in agony over much time. Death therefore shall not be quick, but slow and painful and you will count the seconds and minutes, perhaps even hours with the drips of your blood. As it is you will die, shall you wait to suffer more?" As he gasped in fear, oxygen seeping from his body with blood, Legolas saw the appearance of terror on the man's face and for a second he pitied him. His knife still in place, he reached down and with one hand untied the threatening cloth, making the man's face monstrous, like a blank sheet in the small light of the moon's shadows. Only the barren eyes could be seen always, eyes that spoke no mercy but now flitted wildly in terror. For the first time he saw the man's mouth, it was not, as he had thought it might be, corners pulled downwards, cracked and full of malice, a full beard, hiding the emotion of the face. What he saw was young lips, slightly apart in terror and the fitful breath of panic. There was barely a hair on the youth's face. This was not the murderous, face, bare of emotion, fearless in death, tormentor in life that Legolas had expected. There was emotion here fear, terror of the death that was inevitable now. He breathed fast and gulped for the next breath as life escaped him. The cheeks were as yet not lined with wear and the skin of his face was soft with too few summers. Once more Legolas pitied.

When the boy spoke, he used the common tongue as though a foreign language, spluttering, grabbing for the words that seemed to evade him. "I …" he started then broke off in a sob of anguish. Legolas moved the knife so it no longer touched the skin of his chest as if to offer a comforting motion. "Where are you taking them?" He whispered again, loudly but a little less fiercely. "Wherefore are they so bound? You are of the Corsairs are you not? Why do you travel so with these men in tow?" There was another gasp for breath, this time more ragged than the last, as the life within the boy leapt one last time to cling to hope. Legolas feared he would lose him, but then the voice spoke again. "They are my slaves." He rasped, painfully, then gasped again, his mouth large and wide like a valley, but still he could not admit enough oxygen to persuade the body back to life. "Where are you leading them?" whispered the elf, again more fiercely, he saw the life ebbing away faster than he could control and began to lose patience, "where?" He prodded with the handle of his knife and felt the motion judder through the boy. There was another gasped whisper, as life whimpered from the boy. Slow and drawn out it was like breath after fever or drowning and it spoke the word that Legolas feared most to hear: "Mordor."

Then life left the tortured, fearful body. The elf's threats were nothing to him now. With a silent prayer Legolas wished for the mercy of the Valar on a young life so shortened. He recognised the fear and folly of youth in the boy's face… not yet should the full weight of the evil of his people be brought upon the head of one so young, perhaps, as the elf wished in his soul to believe he had no choice but to follow this life, as a Corsair's child what else was there to do? What was it like to grow up already caught in the fingers of the shadow?

In his grief at the passing of one so young (he was reminded a little of Estel) he had forgotten the other two, that knelt, thus bound under the shadows of the trees, gazing, still with fear, but with more interest than had previously been read in their features. But Legolas saw none of this, he had noticed a vial, that hung from the man's belt. The smell was the same of that which he had found in the vial under the tree, the liquid which had produced a dark stain on his hand, a reflection of his empty dreams. Grief overwhelmed Legolas as he realised the link within the tales, interlocked now. This boy, or some like him, had been there that night. He had followed their trail. It was they who had spilled the blood of his friend, spread for many miles throughout the forest. Could this now be where his friend was bound? Tears flowed again from the stricken eyes, painting thin lines of transparency across the fine cheeks, the high cheekbones like precipices. He wallowed in the luxury of the tears, the feeling that he could let go and mourn and he did not wipe them from his pale face. Then fear overcame him; Mordor, it was a name, in Mirkwood spoken only in nightmares, or the voices of hushed conversation, behind curtains, behind doors. What could he be doing taking men to Mordor?

Legolas knew that the Necromancer had now left Dol Guldur in Mirkwood, for his ancient tower, that of terror in Barad Dur, but he knew little of what happened beyond the black gate. But he knew that the fingers of Sauron, driving evil through the clean lands, slithering out from the gate, and painting all in the colour of his shadow were at work, slithering slowly further from his lair. Numbers of Orcs were multiplying, and, for those who ventured further there were tales of further horror, of men collecting in the south, men now under the eaves of the evil in far Harad and in the mountains there were trolls. Now there was no safe place outside the bounds of Elevendom, unless it was small Gondor, where the remnants of the people of Numenor huddled close, or Rohan where the hearts of men were bold and fierce. And in these places too strange tales began to be told and fires had begun to burn. Legolas thought… 'If Estel is gone to…?' but he could not think it, he refused the obvious connections, building up a solid wall around the thoughts, forcing them away, if even in folly, yet always there was a hole atop this wall, he could not force the thoughts away. But he could not believe that Hope was in such danger.

**What do I do now?**

Legolas felt himself at a loss, nowhere to turn, like a dim lake covered with mud he saw no options, the murky water blinded him, revealing itself in the dirty tears that still ran down his face as he forced himself to believe. He calculated the possibility. It seemed there was no avoidance, whither he turned it seemed to him he looked straight to the fires of Mordor, and in his biased vision there was always Mount Doom in the background as it spilled ash from it sides scarring the landscape with molten rock. In his fitful visions he saw Estel tied to the rocks, and the fear on his face as it grew and the magma came closer. He remembered old stories of those that had escaped the throes of evil, elvish kinsmen, those who had fought for all, and Morgoth had been overcome. Could one man survive such alone? He thought of Turin, and how he slayed the dragon. And yet could he have exchanged the life he led, Legolas would not hesitate. The curse of Morgoth layed upon him, sometimes it seemed the misery of fate outweighed the justice he retained.

For many years the elves had ignored if not forgotten the trials of men, and only those at Rivendell, half elven as they were, the thread of their lives entwined with the world of men unavoidably, had taken an interest in the line of Isildur, protecting the line, for future glory. It was only on meeting Aragorn that for Legolas all had changed. He came as though from a legend; the heir of a half forgotten line, hidden so well for his safety, but real now, filled with flesh and blood, noble thoughts and human fears. A man well designed for Kingship and yet refused his destiny, terrified as he was of disgracing his line.

Rising, eventually, tears still flowing with the same force, dripping now to the ground, mixing with the boggy earth, Legolas tried to take hold of the situation. His knees, where in his turmoil he had pushed them into the Earth as if it could hold and comfort him, had left small dents, a reminder of past fears. Perhaps they might lie there always; others might pass, might not give a second glance, or would consider the dips in the soil, as they might a carving in a rock. Or the rains might once again beat down, or the tread of feet in the soft clayish soil might hammer away, the scars of a single moment's despair, forgotten but all except those who were there, and it resurfaces years later, etched into the fibres of the mind. He considered this as his rose, how momentous was the world, that within minutes it could wash away the stains of evil, rebuilding itself anew. For a second he felt a bolt of light run through him, but his heart was too heavy and the grief too near. Taking his time he slumped against a tree, the veins of the bark through his tunic were all that reminded him of the world and began to sing an elvish lament.

**Look East**

When Legolas opened his eyes again it seemed to him as though a world had passed, and he had barely noticed, until, finding a path through his grief, familiar sights began to fill his mind once again. The sky though a little lighter now hid the moon from view and he could see little, but the birds above his head were preparing for the morn. Recovering himself, dragging himself, heaving himself from his misery and his reverie Legolas registered once again the men tied before him, bound but aware, now viewing him more as an object of interest than alarm. He took a step towards them and reached out, as he did so one flinched, but carefully, trying to touch nothing but the cloth the elf untied the cruel cloth. "Now," this time he spoke gently as they flinched once again. "You have naught to fear from me as long as you are true. Who are you?" "Please," spoke one. In the telltale moonlight Legolas guessed him to be the elder. "Do not harm us." The plea in his eyes pierced the heart of the elf deeper and in his silence he begged for mercy for the two young souls. "From where did you come?" he whispered, again gently, as though no more than a wisp of the wind. He did not wish to frighten them.

"Arun and Haran, we are, sons of Gondor," came the reply. Legolas stepped back for a second inhaling – so he had already come so far south. Now the younger took his turn, "We were far from home. Our mother had died and our father lives in the White City. He did not know…" then the child faltered, tears escaped from his eyes and he looked to the ground in shame and pain. "Do not fear me young ones," coaxed the elf, "for I will not harm you. I only wish to know how you came to this fate, and where you were found." Now releasing the bonds from the young hands Legolas stepped back and laid the ropes to the ground. Viewing their wrists he noted the angry red marks, that danced their way across their skin, the bonds had been tight. "Please speak," he cried, "for I have a friend that might be in great danger. I must know the purpose of these men."

Arun, who seemed to be the elder spoke again, this time with more confidence, discovering that the elf meant them no harm and all alone in the world he poured out his heart. They had been travelling alone to the white city, for their father knew not of their mother's death and they did not trust to the wisdom of their Aunt. In foolish panic they had escaped the farmhouse, determined to pass on the wicked news themselves, to find their father, for he would protect them. Having left the farm they had found themselves lost and alone in the wilderness. Arun felt himself old enough to protect the both. However, as they stopped for rest, hidden as they thought under a great bush, they had felt themselves dragged from underneath. They found to their dismay the gaze of empty eyes, cruel hands and biting nails in their skin. They had been bound and into the blood of their hands there had been mixed a drug; then there was darkness. They had woken later to discover they were carried by several men.

Legolas saw Haran shudder at the memory, and in his mind he saw the shock of his empty dreams that night, and wondered again how he had come to be left alone. How, when placed against such stubborn malice did he appear to have escaped unscathed? In spite of this, his brother's terror at the memories, at the shadow of the eyes, Arun continued: At nightfall they had been attacked by Orcs, and although he had not understood the language of the stone like voices, hard as granite, it seemed that they were too valuable to be caught. They had been dragged away by the youth, who now lay dead on the ground before them, as much for his own protection, as theirs. That was how they had come to be here. The sounds of the battle behind them still ringing in their ears as they fled, they had been drawn away. Their feet, still sluggish from their unconscious hours had eventually failed them and they had fallen. In his youth the boy had not known how to treat them and so they had remained, knees locked to the ground, while he watched and waited, ears keenly anticipating the sound of his master's return, but none had come. Night had fallen and they had remained alone. At this point exhaustion overwhelmed the boy and, his jaws, though wide as a lion's, betrayed his youth and his hurt. Legolas needed to hear no more, the boys, it seemed were being drawn towards Mordor, though for what purpose he knew not, but that lay for the morning to decide.

Legolas did not desire the protection of the White City, for he had little love for its men, and yet he could not leave two such unprotected. Perhaps there he might find answers to the questions that eluded him, or discover a means to bring help to Estel. Prone to hope as he was, now it brimmed within his heart and he was decided. "I shall go with you to find your father," he proclaimed, as though the sound of his certainty might ring true within his mind, full of doubts as it was. A beam of delight passed the face of the boys and he knew he had chosen aright. It was what Estel would wish. The boys seemed tired; Haran, falling asleep against the thigh of the elf. Legolas decided that it would make little sense to move them tonight. They could travel more easily by day, and the Corsairs, frightened as they were by bands of men, and anxious to preserve their secrecy were likely to move at night, as were the Orcs, afraid of the good that sunlight unwillingly brought to the Earth, not totally engulfed by shadow. "Now you must sleep." He demanded of them, voice gentle as soft clay, "for naught will come of walking into the darkness at this hour." He helped the boys, with their limbs newly stiff from their bonds, into the tree behind him, and in the draught of the night air they huddled together. Legolas sighed, looked around him and waited for the dawn, and hoped.

**Under the same stars**

In Mordor now there was only night, with very little to see. Awake for the time being, having been allowed time to recuperate; Aragorn took the opportunity of wakeful, sensible thought to wallow in the peace of the world at this time. Although at the edge of the camp, some stood guard (unnecessary he thought in such a wretched place, who would attack?) while the others around him slept. In the quiet of the darkness, where the shadow abated somewhat, Aragorn considered his state, tried to make sense of the shapes that still tried to form reality within his muddled brain. The panic and the blankness left him weary and his thoughts fell silent once again. He knew he had not always been here. In his thoughts sometimes there was light and friendly faces, although he could not make out the eyes. He recalled distant names, but when he did the faces were gone. His struggle took its toll and his eyes flickered shut for a moment, only to be quickly forced open as the dark world of his dreams threatened to take hold. Dreams where the faces had no names and the eyes were not only indiscernible but were replaced but heavy sockets, therein lay fire. The eyes of his captors were reflected in his dreams. He dreaded the night hours, when he must sleep. When forced unconscious his mind was blank, but sleep gave not that luxury and he felt heavy with grief. It was no rest any more, but toil worse than the miles they walked in the day. On opening his eyes, he raised them slightly to look at the sky. That was his constant. Each weary day the rocks at the roadside, the plains of grey decay changed albeit slightly, but the stars above him, he knew belonged to the world he had come from, and they were all that could give him comfort in this world of shadow, where sometimes his name seemed a blur in the endless punishment of his captors. In his mind words came to him and he heard a voice within his head. Despite the bit like gag that forced his lips apart he attempted to sing, parting them slightly more until they strained at the corners. In his mind he heard a sweet voice that he recollected comforted him when younger. In a thin voice, careful to draw no attention to itself, Aragorn began to sing, singing to the stars, to Earendil that watched. And, although he knew it not, the words that came to him were of the lay of Luthien.


	4. IV

**PART IV**

**THE ROAD TO NOWHERE**

**The open road**

It was late in the morning and the greedy sun had already overtaken the sky when Legolas and his new companions left the protective eaves of the wood, eyes squinting in the invading sunlight. Legolas, having been under cover of green for so long, and so used to the shadows of Mirkwood, felt strangely naked under the wide beams of the expansive sun. It worked its way into his pores and tried to wash from him the grief of his haunted complexion. In haste he pulled his green hood over his head, as if to hide from the mocking happiness the sun longed to spread. In reality he sought to protect his identity for as long as possible. Elves were not always welcome in the world of men. An underlying jealousy and distrust had existed between the two races for many years; one which not even the arrival of the open and trusting Estel had been entirely able to dispel. He represented to most, one man among many, and even within the elven world there were some who could not bring themselves to believe in the good of men. This saddened the elf and he had become very close to the man, closer than to any others he knew now. The open trust and unquestioning obedience and respect of the boys gave him hope, but he did not believe he would be as welcome in the white city as they expected or wished.

He now walked, slowly, trying to grasp the feel of the Earth beneath his feet as a signal of reassurance, that not the whole world lay upside down and beyond his control. Arun and Haran, whose shorter younger legs did not carry them so well, trailed several paces behind, speaking mostly in hushed whispers, between themselves, as though voicing their fears and griefs might force them into some sort of horrific reality, as though the whispers kept the world at bay. Alone as they were, the tall slender elf in front, the two younger boys, wider built but with an air of innocent immaturity painted a strange picture on the road in these days of shadow. Few travelled now between the towns and usually in larger groups, these solitary wanderers drew the stares of many from the edges of the roads. Legolas was glad for his hood, fearing the glances his elvish identity might attract.

Impatient to reach their aim, fearful for another night spent in the open, when orcs loomed near, and frantic to move forward to find Estel, Legolas did not stop them until evening. The boys appeared about to collapse with the toil and exhaustion of the walk, In the darkening day as sunlight gave way to thoughtful shadow, not that of Mordor, but purer and denser, the road appear to split the landscape on either side of them like raven hair. Afraid to stay on the road at night and determined to remain alert and watch for his charge's safety Legolas finally stopped and turned to them. Looking into the tired faces, pale like sand, as their energy ran from them, he spoke breaking the hushed silence of the day like a spell. Suddenly the world was once more with them. "We should stop here and rest. The shadows lengthen and we shall not see our way. We shall move quicker and perhaps reach the white city tomorrow if you are to rest now." In their shattered existence, the boys did not deny their need but dejected, their heads low to the ground they followed him towards the trees. In the darkness, the crept into their very features, Legolas built a fire, hoping that it might stave away the worst of their nightmares. Reaching into his pack, containing that which he had salvaged the night Estel had disappeared he removed some lembas bread and looked to the boys with a kindly expression, rendered warmer by the gentle glow of the fire between them, this fire breathed friendship.

Anticipating the fear of the boys and wishing to put them at their ease, once they had eaten, and they were huddled against the painful night air, brisk and cold in its extremity, Legolas began to speak to them, hoping the sound of a voice, kind and warm might draw them to sleep, deep and empty. In the end he asked: "How came your father to be at Minas Tirith when your mother has for so long resided in the country?" Arun appeared to shun the question, forcing a barrier between him and the elf, perhaps the memory was still too raw a wound. Haran however, was more forthcoming, "our father is of the city guard," he whispered, hushed but proud. "He stands watch at the great outer gate of the city." In the strength of his memory and the vision of the flames a flicker of colour passed his face as for the first time in many days it did not hurt so to recall such a tale. "He came to my mother's village to protect it against orc raiders. There he came and fell and loved. He was wounded by the arrows of orcs, their poison near well cost his life, and he was carried to the house of my mother, who was the daughter of the healer." In the dense flame of the fire the simple love story wove itself deeply and Legolas was moved. In the close silence of their small circle it was as though he began to speak not to his companions but to the air itself. "She watched over him as his body fought the poison, each day it appeared he would succumb and yet on the fourth day, to the shock of all he opened his eyes and spoke her name, although he had not seen her before, it was as though a mist drew back and they knew each other." He stopped and stared into the fire for a moment as though the secret of his parents' romance lay within the flame, as if within the bright sparks regeneration might occur.

Noting the silence Legolas fell from his reverie and wanting to renew the boy's spirits and in need of such an enlightening tale begged of him to continue. "Why were they thus parted?" he questioned the soft tones of his voice at once gently coaxing and deeply interested. He did not wish to break the spell of awe that lay across them like silk across skin. In the same animated tone, lyrical as the web of a spider and smooth the boy continued. For many years, while the threat lay with the outlying villages my father stayed and was of the soldiers there to protect us, but when the need grew at Minas Tirith he was called upon to return. Being very loyal to the Lords of the White City he had little choice but to answer the call. He left when I was five years old, but my mother, who at this time had succeeded her father as the healer of the village, felt she could not follow. Ever since they have been apart, except when he has been given leave, and he always returns to the spot where they met. But now…." As his voice became mixed with the moan of the wind in the trees, Haran's body finally gave way once more to trembled grief. Legolas moved to put an arm around the boy's shoulder, still hesitant of how to react in his distress. Haran laid his head against the elf's chest and fell quickly into a tearful sleep.

Unable now to move, Legolas turned his eyes, half in panic towards Arun, unsure of how to care for the lonely child. Arun's eyes were now turned towards the elf with interest. "Bring him to me," he whispered reluctantly but not harshly. I shall hold him until he wakes. Putting his arms around the boy's shoulders, surprised by how light he was to lift Legolas handed the boy to his brother. Kneeling by his side he longed for the same close comfort that the boys found in each other, that he had found with Estel, gently he questioned, "what became of your mother?" The hurt that washed through Arun's tormented eyes caused the elf to feel pain deep within his chest as he recollected all that they had lost. "Do not answer if you do not wish." He pleaded now, aware of the pain he had caused the boy, perhaps it was best to leave such questions to themselves. But as Legolas turned to return to his watch Arun exerted himself, the elf watched as he physically rejected the tears that threatened again to marr the rough dirt that now grew in islands across his cheeks. He seemed the epitomy of forlorn and yet Legolas could see growing within in him a rough and ragged strength, to fight, he would not give in to death and grief so easily.

In his adult years Legolas saw Arun a stalwart soldier, perhaps very like his father, with wide shoulders, a force not easily moved in battle. He would provide a brick in the wall that must protect the White City from the onslaught of the shadow. Out of the darkness, came the voice strong and clear now, as if shifting aside the constraints that had kept them all in silence, a voice real and practical, ready to take on the task of adulthood, "she was killed," he replied steadily, maintaining his clear tone, the elf should not think him weak. "…it was orcs," Legolas winced in the dark, hoping that Arun did not see, but his heart went out to such a young one so bereft. "I had been gone in the evening, hunting with the men, but found myself lost in the forest. When they returned without me she took it upon herself to search for me, without the counsel of others who wished her to remain till morning. When I came upon her in the wilderness it was all but over." He fought back the urge to speak of his own blame in the matter, but fell silence one more, and yet in the tension of the night air, strung tight like his bow Legolas sensed the boy's feelings. As the embers of the fire went to their rest he reached out and laid his hand once more on the Arun's shoulders "Twas no fault of yours, you could not have stopped the hurt. Destiny does not fall so lightly. You must rest and be strong for your brother." Then removing the hand he disappeared a few steps from them into the darkness. Arun's dark eyes watched as he moved, taking in the mystery of their elvish saviour. Realising he knew little of him, he wondered for a moment at his trust of him, and yet there was an air of sadness which tinged the elf, one which he understood. Finally he could no longer refrain from the call of sleep and he fell to silence.

**Find me now, find me here**

The boot hit his trembling legs once again and Aragorn crashed to the floor. He was thin now, from the relentless march across uneven ground, bones poking through his skin like needles felt as though they jutted at odd angles. If he could have moved his arms independently they would have clung to his chest, pain shuddering through him as the stones, soft as iron, pushed cruel edges into his skin. Cracked like ice upon a pond, was blood in the corner of his mouth and had he seen a vision of his state within a lake, like his world the ranger would not have recognised himself.

The angry language of the Corsairs rang aloud in his ears, heavy like lead. Even in his pain Aragorn thought he began to understand somewhat of the strange words that hit his consciousness like the arrows of Orcs, cruel hard and true, heading to kill. It seemed strange to him that yet these were men. When they had been created he must have been the same as they, hidden in the shadows, untouched by the light of the Valar unconscious of the truth. When had their paths diverged so? It was not like the elves. Where they had fallen the result was bitter, twisted and misshapen they had become the foul race of the Orcs and it seemed life would never forgive them for such a choice. For men it was different, These men Aragorn wished to believe had the potential to be just as he, their lives so close they could feel each other's breath and yet he had to believe they might be saved otherwise what hope was there in the world of men, could he fight alone against the overwhelming weight, crushing weight of the shadow? In them he could still imagine the reflection of himself, in the orcs there was nothing of the former glory of the elves. The boot returned and his lips cringed.

"Get up fool;" came the hated command, that much he understood. The rest fell away from him like a wave in the ocean, cold and vicious. High and violent the wave of their abuse crashed against him the bitter salt stung in his wounds and in his confused mind. Aragorn thought his body might not take another step and yet when he awoke from tortured reveries he found that his wounds particularly the recurring feverish gash within his side had been treated and he was healed enough to bring him to the end of another day's struggle. Had he owned enough coherence Aragorn would have answered some rebuke, but holding his tethered arms towards his gut where the blow fell, once again he pushed his knees against the Earth, the sting of rocks like salt in an open wound forced him from the ground, he could not bear the feel of it, the evil that resided in the very rocks of this land.

Looking ahead as Zuliman's whip demanded each step from his slowing feet, Aragorn could see what seemed to be a sandstorm blocking his view. The road ahead seemed marred by mist, mist that did not disperse but slunk in between the bare features of the land, crawling closer to the prisoners. Suddenly they came to a stop, taking the breath of many with its rapidity. The slinking mist began to form itself into the shape of bodies, grey and awful. Like a machine the bodies marched in sequence, not one out of line with another in a terrible symmetry. Now the sound of a drumbeat caught their ears solid like water on rock, regular as dusk. "Doom doom," it sang a grim song, "doom doom." Aragorn knew with dread the doom of the Orc drums, had heard many times the heavy fall of the beaters against taught skin. Even with the loss of his memories this sound scarred deeper than names, deeper than eyes in his mind and he heard it in his dreams with a black intensity. As his mind trembled he realised that these were not the noisy, unintelligible swarm that slithered about Middle Earth, hiding in the shadows of mountains and beneath the eaves of dark trees, here they were organised, carried full weapons of deadly intent.

Then, like the silence before a battle, when the air is at its clearest they stopped. In the gap, Aragron believed that time stood as he, waiting for doom. In reality within a few seconds one of the Orcs stepped forward and Zuliman and his whip left Aragorn's side, with the removal of the rod, he sunk to the ground, but nobody noticed in the silence.

Then began a gestural battle, Aragorn neither understood the language of the Orcs or the corsairs and yet he knew they were angry, that things were not going well. In fury fists were thrown in all directions and although they did not hit each other, they punched the air with the weight of a mountain, definite and stubborn, would stand where lesser monuments would fall into decay. Aragorn raised his fatigued neck slightly from the ground in order to gain a better view of the happenings, now Zuliman was pointing, in their direction, eyes dark and red with bitter rage, unlike his usual cold vacancy.

"You must take them." Zuliman's rasp grazed the air with its wrath. "We could come no faster, they were not easy to handle, and yet their strength is undeniable." "They should have arrived three days ago," spat the Orc, Nuth, and darts of saliva found themselves flying toward Zuliman's forehead. "It is too late, we cannot take them." Zuliman winced in irritation, his fury rising; he had brought them good men, strong men who would work long, their senses dulled, spirits broken; they would stay long then fade eventually to dust in the shadow. He wished now only for release to make his way from the dread land back to hunting, that was what he did best, like a Warg he revelled in the chase, once there was prey in his sight he was unstoppable and immovable. "You will take them, at the price agreed." He was growling now, fury clear and numb painted across his brow. If it came to a broken vow he could match any Orc in ferocity and brute strength. In anger he thought, I am unbeatable. "I shall take five," groaned the Orc like shreds of glass, "but we need no more. At the price agreed." A look of understanding passed between the two and the fury died down to embers in Zuliman's eyes.

**Going Under**

An exchange seemed now to be taking place, the wild hand gestures had stopped, and both seemed satisfied with their deal. In their eyes and their minds each believed he had outsmarted the other. In horror the ranger saw them slowly edge their way towards them. As he let his neck rest against the sore earth once more, he saw only the heavy footfalls of their boots. They came closer until the creases seemed as though they were in his eyes and the dark scent of leather filled his nostrils. Above him another debate was happening, but he dared not look. At this moment, so incapacitated he wished not to gain the attention of those that might crush. Life in itself still held value; he still lived did he not? The ranger's tortured mind, so ruined by his treatment, could imagine little worse than the heave the endless heaviness of his journey across Mordor, the slash of the whip against his back and his chest, the threat of steel within his side and the throb of the pitiless earth beneath him as he fell, falling as though he might reach the bottom of the sea. He wished he might continue to fall, the air did not hold rocks. Voiced were raised grating against the bitter air, slicing the silence that surrounded them. They moved on, stood above others, cruel nails wrenched chins from the chests of the prisoners. Aragorn rested, closing his eyes against the threat of the future, searching once more for the blurs of his memories. Then they returned. His eyes still closed, perhaps because he believed his fate would be less if he was blind to it, Aragorn felt the dig of a nail into the soft dirt coating the rough skin of his cheek. Finding flesh it pierced. "This one," gashed the voice so many metres above him, like the threat of hail." Aragorn's senses leapt in recognition of the tongue. "Yes he," replied the faceless answer, yet in his mind's eye Aragorn saw the relentless blacks of the eyes, the smouldering readiness; and the words brutal, threatening as they were, were spoken in the common tongue. "He is strong, but his body is weary. It will not take much to break." Aragorn felt himself lifted roughly from the ground, filthy nails digging through flesh and finding muscle. For a moment he locked eyes with the Orc, the certainty and stubborn strength of his, refracted by the will and malice, the deep evil of the Orc's iron black eyes, then he was thrown aside, bones crumpled into a pile at the side of the road and Aragorn felt a crack in his shoulder, resounding in his ears like the opening of a chasm in the earth. Pain dragged through him and he gasped.

He watched, tethered to helplessness, as four others, the strongest and those who had just become men were counted out from the other prisoners, hand picked for the crushing of Orc feet. Then he was hauled roughly to his feet, the gulf between his collar bone widening and small stones were pitted inside his skin, reminders of the force with which he had been laid there. In his agony, Aragorn's body refused to move forward even as he was tied behind the last of the slaves to be taken, ropes stained with the emptying blood of his hope. The refusal came this time not from will of defiance of the soul, but of the body, tired and worn, and so alone he could think of nothing but to die. Unforgiving hands, gritted with gnawing skin shoved him forward and he crashed ahead. His knees knocked then fell from under him, dragging down the line. Again he felt the merciless lash of a whip and blood rushed around his head, and he thought he might implode. Yet in the pain he felt, however faint, the warm touch of another human. A hand reached out and it was not of the Orcs but smooth and cool, restful, and its presence soothed the man. Reaching out it took hold of him, tied as they were, and lifted Aragorn once more to unsteady feet. The man felt another lash enter his back, and yet in his mind he felt the touch of skin not tinged with the scent of evil. In the reach of the hand, the clash of human skin rested his hope, and if there was humanity left to live for he would fight to keep it as long as he could. Ignoring the burn of the black leather, and the trickling blood, his unwilling feet began to move beneath him. And in his mind Aragorn saw grey eyes.


	5. V

**PART V**

**REACHING UNKNOWN LANDS**

**In the footprints of my father**

Legolas stood in awe, as though at the foot of a mountain. In front of him rose the heights of the great White City of Men. Created by those of Numenor, in its heights appeared a majestic beauty that spoke of the influence of those greater than the present occupants. In the setting sun it shone as coral on an ocean bed, lit only by the beams that reached so deep. It spoke to him of greatness past and yet was bound with a great sorrow, noticeable in the gentle yellowing or thin cracks of its bricks. It was the first time Legolas had seen Minas Tirith, though he lived for over a thousand years of its life. He had heard tales of the fall of its kings but never had he been brought into such proximity of their fate. Rarely, until he had met Estel had he wandered so far south. He took a breath that extended to the bottom of his ribs, struck with the achievements of men. And of this Estel might one day be King, what a burden to bear. Legolas felt he understood for the first time the magnitude of the heaviness that must always dwell with Estel. He must go where so many of his race had been lost

Being daytime the gates of the city were open, although the effects of the approaching shadow already showed themselves in the city's tapestry. The gates were now fiercely guarded at all times; lengthening rows of steel helmets measured the tread of the shadow towards the shores of Anduin. Following arrival, there must be an interrogation. Looking into the eyes of the man who now stood before him, to Legolas it seemed he was on trial. They looked through the irises of his eyes, piercing the flesh and muscle as though they could view his thoughts. Guilt played on his mind, although he could not think what of, suspicions of the shadow were natural. The capture of slaves showed how far the evil already encroached on the lives of these people. Living under the very borders of shadow lands; they could not afford to allow caution to slip.

The inquisitor stood before them, old and ragged. Wisps of white hair threatened to spill from underneath his helmet, revealing to all his advancing years, preying on his sense of his own weakness. In fact his own belief in the growth of this weakness caused him to be extra vigilant; the threat of his age did not cloud his depth like eyes. With his mood they strayed in their colour. Now his determination pierced them, dark like metal in his investigation; immovable as stone. Or so he wished.

"What business have you with the white city, stranger of the North?" he delved, like a spade he dug through excuses, forcing their eyes from the ground. Legolas stood between their investigator and the boys like a shield from the prying eyes. Caught by the spear like questions of the man, he too felt like prey. Uneasy in the company of so powerful a city of men, and in his obscured identity Legolas remained hesitant in his answers. This was a method which puzzled the inquisitor. Awkward, Legolas replied. Like a foreign being he stumbled for his words. "My business is my own, I wish to enter the city from a wish to be better acquainted with its great and noble history." he stuttered uncertainly, hoping that flattery might win the trust of this man with such eyes. Still he wished to hide. He did not feel they needed to know more than this; he had given no reason for doubt. "If you are not more forthcoming, I shall have to detain you at the first gate," came the sharp reply as like spears the wills of the two beings clashed. Tension in the air resounded as they refused to crush one another. Legolas peered backwards at the expectant faces, wide with hope, for his wards and realised he must be forthcoming. They had suffered too much disappointment.

"I have come on behalf of my two young charges," he gestured, waving his hand in the direction of the boys. "They have informed me that their father dwells herein, and I must find him urgently. He is of the guards of the city." At this point, followed by a look of solid certainty and responsibility Arun now stepped forward. When he spoke his voice was thick as that of a man well into the years of adulthood, confident and implacable. Like a brick of the city he withstood the attack of the man's eyes, pupils as dense as those which stood above him. "I," he stated, words marched like the feet of soldiers on parade, slow and definite, "am Arun, son of Hellian of the third company of the citadel." This time there was no doubt on the face of the guard of the gate. But between the two, mutual like pillars of the same stone, there was recognition of equality and esteem.

Instead there came now the old man, and the child trying the garb of adulthood for the first time the familiarity of those who know such mutual empathy and respect. "I know your father well." The voice was like a smile, broad and inviting, desperate for approbation. "For I trained him, when first as a boy, younger perhaps than you stand now, he came to me and spoke of his intention to join the guard." He continued now, as if in a dreamlike removal to a happier age. "Others had contempt for his youth, and yet I saw in him, as I see in you now, the potential for such strength as my feebler body n'er imagined." Then as an after thought, or perhaps a further apology for his doubt, "you are much alike to him. I am Amandil of the gate." "Then my father spoke of you," rose Arun, who could now hold his place well in the discussion. Yet he equally desired such approval. "And highly he spoke. Do not reference such feeble powers, for I know that he stood in such awe of you as a child of ten approaches a goblin for the first time. These words he gave to me himself, although his visits have recently been rare."

For a moment, each stood within the mist of his own reverie, not wishing to interact with the world of the other. Yet each world threaded together, wove into a tapestry of the kinship of men. Legolas, and his strange apparel and accent of the north was for now forgotten in the passion of the moment of recognition and association.

"Know you where to find my father?" The question came now cold and desperate, like the first drops of rain in spring it seemed to ask for the hope of saviour. "Aye, he stands atop the walls of the city, above this very gate." The answer, positive as the sun, brought the end to their drought. Amandil summoned another guard who stood close. His eyes, gentler, greyer like soft graphite found their way through the heavy cover of his helm. This man was little older than Arun, Legolas deduced from the soft chin, not yet moulded by the entrenchment of the ways of the old. "Here is Simion," boasted Amandil with a touch of pride as though presenting a protégé, "also of the third company of the city." Simion, uncomfortable between the sharp nosepiece of the helm, shifted in conspicuous anxiousness, he had not long been assigned this post and he feared the charge of the shadow towards his land as a rabbit in an open field, unsure of which way to turn. "Simion, take these men to Hellian of the walls, he is a captain there. These are his sons. He must be released from his duty for the day." In self conscious silence, Simion beckoned them, and in equivalent hush Legolas followed his charges. In their own surroundings, among their own people, they now seemed to have gained the protection of himself and he felt all the discomfort of exposure. He was as alien to them as they seemed to him; his hood, a thin roof of material; all that seemed to lie twixt himself and discovery. As they ascended the stolid stone of the steps to the wall he considered the indelible mark of man. When the elves were gone, men would remain immovable as the sea.

**Faithful Lantern**

"It is night. The shadow rests and allows the moon to shine above, lantern in our darkness. There are stars that smile like the teeth of children, but do not bite. They watch us; eyes and I think if we moved they might follow, but unlike the lidless one they blink. I ignore the scent of the earth, bitter taste of dirt and metal that comes with it. In the wide expanse of the sky, spreads our hope and our strength. Only in the sky they cannot constrict us, for it is there to look upon wherever we stand. They cannot hide it here, or deny its existence, for like the struggle of good and evil it is steady in the world and offers balance. The shapes the stars paint are familiar and yet so distant in my blurred mind they might be of another world. Yet, if they are we can still see them; that other world, though far, is thus far within our grasp. If I squint they seem so close. I might reach out and touch. And, though I think they would burn, the sensation might bring pleasure, as does the pinch that drags from a nightmare. They are the certainty I have not fallen below the edges of the time. There are patterns that like memory do not make sense but speak of a great past. They shine enough to clear my thoughts, and yet hide light enough so that I cannot see the desolation of my situation. In starlight even this world in the dusk of its life (it lies closer to midnight than we think) gains an apparel of friendly darkness. The rocks lose their jagged edges, the haunted land its barren extremity."

Words poured from the mouth of the ranger like a song, as a prayer. Yet to whom did he pray or speak? The word's, barely audible, formed little more than a whisper, indistinct to the rough senses of the Orcs and yet it was perceptible to his close companions. The other prisoners wallowed in the strength and hope of the words; the recollection they brought of previous life and the certainty of the stars. They knew not if he spoke to them or to himself and yet they were glad of the touch of humanity the words released. Whether for their comfort or his alone they strengthened and night was not an enemy more terrible than the tread of the crushing Orcs, but as a friend it cradled them in its familiarity. They had not always looked upon it thus.

**The end of the road**

They had walked a day further, miles in which direction Aragorn knew not. Like a blindfold his drug induced stupor had left him unaware of the direction they sought and the sun held no bearing for them here. The shadow left none to guide. They walked or marched or stumbled, spirits tethered to one another now. When rope binds bodies and one falls, it is as though all have fallen, the fall of one symbolising the death of hope for all. They walked close, the ropes not taut between them but loose and welcoming and they could feel the breath of one another upon their necks, a familiarity only possible in prisoners so shortly after acquaintance. To be alone is to wither. Aragorn craved this touch of human life, like a breeze in the desert it brought comfort – all the world is not such as this; there are others behind. He now coughed from the drought of the land, felt the dust shake his ribs within his body, it nearly made him double and yet the movement might summon another three steps backward; steps he no longer wished to enforce.

Then, as sudden as nightfall that came upon them the fall of a curtain, blanketing them in the softness of the darkness; they were ordered to stop. The language was not understood but the barbarity was insistent, shrieked in the silence of the plains of fear. Peering through the thin curtain of darkness, Aragorn squinted uncertainly into the distance. There were no lamps and the moon, faithful lantern, was as yet in shadow. He saw, in blurred shapes, that there were others, dark like clouds in the mist of night. He could not see their faces but he could feel the force of their eyes on him. Another Orc throbbed toward them, little clouds of dust, whirlwinds to the narrow eye clustered around his feet. He stopped and began to hiss in a low voice to Nuth, their leader, whose gnarled hands, thick with biting nails had already become familiar with the contours of his prisoner's backs.

As they came closer Aragorn saw that there were more men here, backs bent to the point of cracking, eyes pinned to the ground. The hope of the sky, of the stars was lost to them. At last he could see their eyes, lids, three quarters shut, they were blunt and hopeless, colours dimmed to a perpetual grey. They sat in ragged rows, tied in one misery. Some, on the edges of the group seemed barely to register the arrival of the newcomers; others peered with mild interest, inspecting those that might come to replace them. It was they, whose backs, were bent less as scimitars, whose eyes, though narrow, still illustrated a corner of awareness; however shallow, however ephemeral it was there.

To their right there were deep pits, the bottoms beyond view. Like gaping mouths, toothless, expressionless they gnawed into the earth. In the dimness, they seemed as though they would swallow, gulping the little light that illuminated them. Aragorn tried to strain his neck, but was forced back in a shock of pain from his broken collar bone, and he drew back with a hiss of anguish. Beyond that there seemed to be some kind of stone-works. Though, in the density of the darkness, the lumps appeared more as rotten teeth, jutting at weird angles from the ground. What was this place? For what purpose had they been hauled here? Quizzical looks murmured on the faces of his companions, marred only by the tinge of a new fear, a threat unknown. And as they evaluated their fate, the new circumstance, so outside their realm of knowledge, there came a sharp tug on the rope that bound them. They were flung forward, heads narrowly escaping the clash of skulls in the shock of movement.

Feet, unwilling, rooted to the spot were heaved from their entrenchment. The drawing hands had no mercy; when they were slow, it heaved harder; Aragorn felt the cracked bones within his shoulder move once more from their contact and he heard the crunch as they dislocated. Yet he would not show the shame of a scream or even a moan. He must now keep his strength if only to give hope to the others. The hope given to him, by the moment of human contact, the kindness, warmth of the touch in the darkness of his nightmare, had not given way, and though his body was weak, Aragorn's spirit had once more grown strong. Even though he could not remember who he was, he knew that in his past there had been the same kindness that the touch had recollected. His limbs, his crying shoulder begged for the mercy of oblivion, wept for the rest of the longest sleep. He could not let his mind fall so, and in the haze of his thoughts, Aragorn constantly fought the fall to darkness; the hopelessness that threatened so often to overwhelm him. He kept within his vision, behind the curtains of his thoughts the vision of the grey eyes. They were kind eyes, fierce and loyal, they looked on him, with anger when he slid to despair but most of all he read in them the existence of something beyond this. In the reflection of the grey irises he knew that he had a past.

Viciously they were thrown down. It happened first because the first prisoner had walked too far.

Their fall formed a line in front of the ragged slaves, whose eyes, like Orcs still watched them. Landing in a heap, there came a murmur of winced pain, as all had suffered under the hand of the Orcs. Eyes closed as the jolt of landing muttered through him, Aragorn nearly lost his constant fight with the conscious world. He tried to move, but there was another kick in his side and he crushed cruelly into the prisoner next to him once more. Then hands came, as if from the air and cut the bands that tethered their hands, there was ache as blood, held back for so long, rushed along arteries to reach the released fingertips. However this mistake of freedom was not to last, for almost as soon as release had come, blood had reached the fingers, flaccid hands were roughly caught; then, bound by a dark chain; dark like oil it slithered around their wrists. Hands were viciously manacled, and blood was trapped once more. The thud of the manacles as they clamped around his wrists Aragorn felt as a jolt that pierced his bones. He was so connected to his body now that even a sound which came from elsewhere might cause his body to convulse slightly. Then came a second, third, fourth as once more they were joined in tethers, but this time their binding spoke the words prisoner, even more harshly than before. Ropes can be broken or sliced, but chains of thick metal, they are there to keep you to the same patch of Earth, hold you tight to the point of evil.

Then they were left, cold and alone. The iron, black like charcoal, coated the manacles and rubbed dark dust in circles on the grimy skin of the prisoners. The Orcs stood a few metres hence, always watching; and yet this seemed a breath like clear mountain air for those captured, for a moment eyes did not bore through skin and they felt the danger and the fear diminish. Aragorn's tense muscles relaxed into a weary heap and he aimed to sleep. Then in the darkness, a voice…

**Nameless**

"I am Sador of Gondor," came a delirious whisper in the dark. For a moment Aragorn thought he dreamt the contact, the warm breath of the whisper in the knife cold night air of Mordor. They could speak, he realised for the first time and a wave of almost breathless excitement shook through his weary bones. For so long all he had heard were the dreadful, thrashing words that the Orcs spat into the air or the threatening ugliness of the Corsairs. "Faithful," murmured Aragorn to himself, and he wondered if the name was well suited. "Who are you, stranger?" requested the voice once more rose the voice once more, careful and questioning desperate for familiarity. "For your voice is not that of the south. I hear no trace of Gondor or Rohan. You must be of the north." "I" spoke Aragorn softly as a wave of gentle despair rolled across his thoughts, "… am nameless."

**End of part V**


	6. VI

**Part VI**

**INTERLUDE**

**A voice in the darkness**

….wearily Aragorn answered, then delving deeper "Or else it is lost beyond memory, for of it I have no recollection. Sometimes I see eyes of my past and they are the happiest days. Other times, I think perhaps there was nothing before this; no eyes. And the bodies I see were placed there not by memory but by the threat of evil that taunts my very thoughts. I cannot name these eyes or these faces, but slowly, a little with the rising of the grey light each morning they appear less vivid" A he ended, his voice, soft like the brush of grass no longer seemed to address another, but sang softly. It was as though he addressed the darkness, his captors or perhaps life itself and memory, dredging it, forcing it up from the shadows. For he could speak, openly at least and though others might hear him, the sound of his own voice, soft but within hearing was a spark of strength within the ranger. It was something else that now they could not deny. Through the folds of darkness, skin soft, he did not see the surprise on the face of the newly acknowledged Sador. He felt some kind of trust with this man although he had little knowledge of him; perhaps it was the perception of the human skin that had lingered with him for so long, a cool soothing balm in the midst of the burning evil of rope and Iron.

"Bellas, I will name you then," relented his partner voice that thrust itself in friendship through the darkness. "Strength," and for a moment he paused as though the darkness had come between them. Aragorn held his breath for more response, begged for the reassurance of the voice in the darkness.

Then, it peered once more, like the sunlight he vaguely remembered peering good morning over the thin spines of tree branches. "Your words speak of the terror of darkness and I have seen what you suffer, and I do not know a man that might have lived through what I have seen. Yet there is still strong spirit in you." Then, as though it was but a last breath of wind, he added as an afterthought, "All must be named for else they will lose fight to continue." Then a snake like lash slung itself between them, hissed against the revealed skin of Aragorn's shoulder where the ruins of his tunic lay in strands like weed across scarred skin. All fell silent, unwilling to be responsible for the pain of another and thereafter nothing seemed to stir..

**Dance of Death**

When morn came it was like the ashes of a fire long burned out, cold, dark, and dusty in the grim light. The sun never peered over the mountains that like iron bars fenced in. Black and grimacing they threatened to close in on you until there was nowhere to flee. As the red glow, and shadow like intensity of clouds formed overhead, Aragorn awoke from a diminishing sleep. Now without the drug of the corsairs he felt more aware, but his stupor had at least spared him the dreadful blur of dark dreams. He closed his eyes and saw fire but the flames were black, Faces, mouth less and expressionless surrounded him, and only in a tiny corner, barely perceptible when sleep took hold could he hear the voice that had named him strength. While sleeping he believed even these words too as nothing more than an evil dream, sent to torment him with echoes of normality, of life beyond soulless eyes and dark rocky roads that like spiders crawled into the never ending distance. The infinity frightened him too. In nightmares, this land had no limit, a road thick with dust and dead skin, crawled sluggishly into the setting shadow of either direction; and no escape showed itself. Yet the voice, whether good or evil, pounded strong.

Life now fell into a slow and deadly routine. Like a dance the prisoners played their parts; partners in their own downfall. They were constricted by the movements forced on them by those who held the drumbeat. It played painfully slow, spoke doom like the sound of Orc drums deep within the mines of the world. The prisoners were raised at dawn from the stifling grip of sleep, that held them mercilessly in evil dreams for the few hours rest they were allowed. Eyes were prized open by the grab of ruthless hands, even before the groan of light drew them from solitude. Then the glare of Orcs, the putrid smell of breath and skin which fled from their bodies, permeated the senses, stomachs rolled like seasickness, and fear in waves crashed like breakers several metres high.

Breakfast was worse, as though thrown under by the waves the stomach would seize and thrash. Even the Orcs hated the stained, grime like bread that was forced down the throats of the prisoners, maggot bread they called it, spitting out the words as if they tasted of their own smell. If the prisoners refused to drink, they were forced to rough knees, and denied breath through their noses until like drowning collapse was inevitable, mouths were forced open and like blood the foul liquid slithered in the throat. Others, desperate for release, would deny breath themselves to a point beyond the force of the Orcs, instead thick boots crashed into their stomachs until gape shaped mouths made pain filled O's. The thick dark like mud liquid found its way to their stomachs too, and like the rooting of evil it sustained, even strengthened some and yet not for their own work or benefit, but for their domination by others; the very body became a slave to the dark poisons of the forces of evil

Then with no rest and no wash work began (there was no water for washing, it fled the black land like light). Long and arduous it was from the first inch of light that crawled through the darkness into the sky, until the stars gazed over their backs and in the air the particles were cold like the breath of first frost on the grass. In thin tunics, ragged like rock faces from toil, there was little to protect from the gnawing elements; the ice like fingers that seemed to reach through the pores of cloth, piercing skin with needle like blades of ice. The fingers of cold were like the nails of Orcs, biting, threatening always to take more, perhaps your life.

Some worked above the ground, armour was to be made it seemed, like swarms of ants there was a never ending demand. Piles of swords flat and sharp like weeds, with a hook on the end to drag skin from bone, appeared from the ground grew like the flood of a river – sudden and bursting as banks broke. Metal appeared, grey and swarthy like skin, none knew where there were such supplies, or why such a demand was required. The shadow seemed determined to suck the very goodness from the Earth itself. The metal was hard and cold, brutal against unprotected skin it cut where it could.

Others, less fortunate, were denied even the weakness of the fresh kiss of the air. Below the Earth, where slanting stone pushed vision of the sky beyond the sight even of eyes squinted to tears, air suffocated. Hot as breath, it seemed to burn with the flames that licked the fingers that held the metal, burning through skin like paper, even skin hard and gnarled with toil. Here weapons took shape, the sharp tooth like hooks of the swords appeared from the dark liquid, that made the stomach turn in remembrance of the stain of liquid forced in mornings. It slithered into the moulds; metal took shape like the slide of evil into the dark places of the world. Worse still, there was the greed of the search for metal. Great axes, heavy as men must be lifted. Like whips they lashed the defenceless rock, dragging crumbling stone to unforgiving Earth, stone that should have remained buried. Metre after metre the axes dug for perhaps a few inches of metal, the glint of which like gold was the prize that all sought, for it brought with it the promise of peace. If found, the Orcs would target you less, the nightmare might subside, however slightly and for a moment, all that was wanted was the glint of metal; life forgotten.

Heat and cold relentless, overtook the body until it shook with indecision, it did not matter which. Skin hardened to wrinkles, and when fatigue took over, when nightfall had long since passed like the cloth which quietens a caged bird, the nerves cared not for the bite of cold. Instead tinged with blue like the feint of dawn bodies begged sleep, until eyelids were hauled over weary eyes and oblivion obliterated the numbing tingle of frost.

**At my side**

Like venom the steam that rose from the gaping mouths of the land was tinged with colour. Sometimes like blood it was red; like that which escaped the body; a thin mist now, as though that was all that humanity was shrunk to. Other times it was black and Aragorn thought it was ash, or perhaps the remnants of the souls of those that slowly disappeared kept so long from the sun, beneath. They might search a better place or like condensation disappear into the wind and be blown away across the fences; perhaps it was the only means of escape.

"Bellas", he whispered in the dark, when even the pleasure of human voices had forsaken him. When his mouth released the word like a salve he knew it was true.

In the freedom of darkness, the man with the voice had reached with his worn hands, bound with iron to Aragorn's own and had torn cloth. In the swirling secrecy of night he had bound the shoulder, holding the bones that moved apart like the branches of trees. Faithful as the night, that appears no matter what he lay at the side of the man, shared his warmth, all that he had to give in the world. And like strength he was Aragorn returned it fiercely, as he did all things when once more there was something to love. When waking the voice of his friend played strong between the shadows of his fractured memories. He did not know who he was but he existed and others too, like him. The shadow, even in this wretched land had not completely taken hold.

In the day he was careful to draw no attention to the warmth that existed between the two. Fearing that any friendship that seemed to grow in the withering air of Mordor would be cut down, denied to the ruin of all, he hid it, like a flower budding in the night, hidden behind a rock in dense woodland like a candle in dark places. When the breath of night was felt on their faces they sank into the thrill of companionship, unquestioning in the desperation of their need.

As they lay side to side, (a week now they had lain thus) the voice of his friend, gently brushed aside the silence of the air. Friend, it is strange how quickly we accept the name of such a bond, in such situations, where suspicion is replaced by fear of being alone, readily we take to those that show kindness. "Truly you remember nothing of your former life?" Aragorn sighed at the loss of hope the question rang with. "Truly nothing my friend," he declared wearily, releasing his hope into the night sky, allowing it to run away from him into the pale cold of the air. "Like venom there are shapes in my dreams that pierce me with their reality, and then sink into obscurity, I can only believe they are put there by such permeating evil. The visions lead me to trust nothing and I long for daybreak, despite the anguish of toil and the malice of Orcs. When my memories turn against me, there is nothing." "Bellas," reached the voice of Sador, softer than afore, "they are but dreams which turn to haunt you, and yet you wake to see another day. Perhaps they should not haunt but you should believe." "Nay," struggled Aragorn, "in my days I seem a man with no past and yet every line upon my face tells some forgotten tale. I have not the strength to fight the pain of day and the haze of night, only to discover that nothing remains, I am still without memory.

This is real. My past could tell whatever it liked."

With that he returned to silence and reverie; Sador to wondering. The man was more than what he had become, that he knew. He could see in the man's eyes, if allowed the possibility of strength greater than the sum of others combined, and in that strength, even this night, even in this land, he placed his hope of fight, of escape. He breathed in the strength that emanated from the very pores of this man, clogged by evil as they were, lived from its source, and nurtured it for future action.

**At a late hour**

There were hands again, caked with rivers of blood, dry as dust, that reached out but always fell back inches short of their target. He knew the lines of these hands, the contours of the knuckles and the bend of the wrist. He knew the arms, the faint scars, embedded in the skin like the creases of rocks, the dark protecting hairs. Yet these were not the hands he knew. He wished he could see beyond, that there might be light in the darkness of the void of his nightmares. Not even a candle would stay alight in the stifling fear that overtook him in sleep. Each night the hands seemed a little further away. Each night Legolas noticed a new river of blood.

"Find me" spoke the voice he remembered "…for the hour is already late."

**End of part VI**


	7. VII

**PART VII**

**SACRIFICE**

**Looking at myself**

Arun peered into his father's face, as though looking into the sheen of a mirror; the experience was the same. His own dark eyes, dense and knowing, stony in their strength but capable of great loyalty, stared unnervingly, unblinkingly at him. He quivered a little in the shadow. It was several years since they had been together, and yet, as between him and Amandil there seemed an unacknowledged equality. Haran, a little fearful now that he stood in front of his father, unknown and imagined for so many years, stepped back a little, his head hung forward slightly. It was left to the corner of his eye to discover the grim lines and proud bearing of his father's face and body. Legolas felt once more as though he should be responsible for such young ones, and yet found himself once more under their control, slightly helpless. Still anxious to remain undiscovered he feared to say more than was necessary and was thus forced to wait in the background, unnoticed.

Hellian had turned in wonder; this news was the last tidings he had expected to hear. His sons according to his wishes, his prayers, lay safe and protected by a mother's love deep in the country. The focus of Orcs he believed now came upon the white city of men, determined to destroy; draw the remnants of Numenor to submit. Yet he had not heard of the attacks that came in the night, in quiet like the silence of a battlefield before a fight, the evil that came without drums; it plundered and tore.

"Father," spoke a stuttered voice, uncertain as though on a stepping stone gripping to find footing, Arun stood desperate for the approval of his father. He felt that without the support of this figure he should become nothing. He also saw himself responsible for the death of his mother, for drawing his brother into the nucleus of danger. Perhaps had they stayed at home….? Yet in his mind when he struggled for rationality that they must have come, that the journey for better or for worse would lead him to prove his manhood; and he was ready to face the challenge.

Hellian stood, still ice like in his immobility, did not know how to react to the mirror that stood before him, exhaling strength so like his own, desperate in the dread of his features. It had been so long between them, so many years that he felt intimacy to be difficult. Time was like a broken bridge between them, and all would have to relearn the ways of their kin. Eventually he broke the silence. In awkward tones he stumbled as though upon the rocks of sheer mountains; "My sons…" then he broke off, as if emotion or merely the unknown hindered him. " I did not think to see you within the walls of this city so soon. Where is your mother? Have you left her alone?"

Arun seemed stunned at what he sensed was anger in his father's confusion. In fear and respect of such an idolised elder he knew not how to react. He stammered, tried to form and excuse, and fell silent, head heavy as rocks drawn towards the earth. Legolas, sensing such a rift, wished to heal, stepped forward and in a low voice began to explain.

"I am Legolas," he spoke," and hoping to gain the trust from the father of such sons he opened up a little of his own trust, let go of some of his closely guarded identity; so precious to himself, so dangerous in such a land. "I am an elf of the woodland realm of Mirkwood. He noted the look of genuine surprise that, despite his reluctance painted itself across Hellian's features, revealing him to be open as the wind. "I found your sons captured and alone amid the eaves of the forests of Anorien. They were bound together and within the custody of a Corsair. Had I not been there I believe that they would have been carried off to slavery in Mordor." Legolas spat the word as though it made him retch and the taste was foul within his mouth. At the sound of the word his mind, always resting on the fate of his friend would automatically fly to his constant terror for Estel's welfare. He remembered the dreams from which he suffered night after night, always the same, only another slight stain of blood marred the hands that reached.

Within a second Hellian's face had turned from its puzzlement to dark rage and Legolas stopped abruptly, momentarily afraid that he was the cause of such passion. The danger of his son's melted like the blanket of snow at the whisper of spring any anger or confusion the man felt towards his sons, but though he was slow to anger his wrath came as an arrow to the heart, true and piercing. He stood speechless and his eyes looked not upon the elf that wished to share his anguish, nor on his sons uncertain and seeming lost within the city of Kings.

Finally, as always, and proof of his maturity, sprouting like a sapling in spring, Arun once more broke the rage filled silence. Red it seemed and hot like a forge. He reached out even, his hands, to make the first moves of reconciliation, of reassurance to the unmistakable guilt that radiated from his father; so very like his own. "Father," his voice, repeating the word familiar like the morning, was softer but more resolute; he no longer stumbled with his words. "Our mother is dead, for she came to search for me in the darkness, when I would not be found. She was struck by the evil sting of Orcish arrows from which no healing hand could save." His voiced was scored with grief, yet like his duty he continued. "I felt this to me my fault and so led Haran from our home to seek you here, if only for Haran's protection. The village is no longer safe for him."

Legolas felt the steady grace of these words that had accepted whatever end his father chose for him. Hellian's face could no longer register a single expression but his throat was choked with the shock and grief of the words, like thunder on a summer's eve, unexpected and so destructive. He could not speak, but his eyes were locked with those of his son's in disbelief. But it was the turn of Arun to be calm now, for he saw no other way except honesty before him.

"The attack in the woods came as a surprise, I had my arrows and a knife, but they were not enough it seems and we found ourselves outnumbered and taken by cruel hands and hidden faces. They carried us off until there came an ambush by Orcs. These it seems were not the friends that had been expected. We were dragged elsewhere, and powerless, for they drugged us. This elf came upon is in a clearing, or rather we came upon him. Without his help we should be, as he tells, dead or far from here enslaved." He stopped and breathed as though it might be the last he would take, for he feared and expected judgement, and then, softer still, continued, "I ask no pity father, the fault is mine. But for my foolish acts our mother would not lie dead, and we should not have come so near the shadow. I ask only that you judge me as you see fit, and that my brother shall not partake of my shame."

Having finished so noble and diligent a speech and expecting nothing but contempt, unable now to bear the weight of his father's grief contorted features, he chose the ground as his focal point. Arun set his sights on the slight cracks that appeared between the stones of the ancient city. On their irregularity only could he find the strength to avoid breaking down and begging for his father's mercy that he was sure he did not deserve. He heard a movement and flinched, waiting and expecting to be beaten.

**Facing It**

But the blow expected never came. Instead his father's arms found themselves clinging to the son as though by taking his breath he could somehow take his soul into keeping, protecting it from the harms of the world. The arms Arun felt were fierce and loving and he felt almost stifled in the intensity of embrace. He knew not what to do, so ready had he been for the censure of this man. Tears now flowed freely like cool water on the glass of a window, refreshing rain in the heat of summer, as Hellian struggled to bring his emotions under control.

Finally releasing the overwhelmed boy he stepped towards the elf, but held back from a similar intimacy, unsure of how to address one of the Elder race. Legolas, now more at ease, seeing the relief of the father, his powerful love for his sons, was willing to make the first steps to intimacy. Leaning forward he laid his hand on the shoulder of the stricken man, bending all his hope towards this man's grief, hoping to instil some like tiny rays of sun that peer through the clouds of a storm or rain. He felt the drop of a tear onto the soft skin of his hand, and he wept inside for the grief of such times, proof as it was of the lengthening shadow over Middle Earth.

For the first time Hellian peered into the deep grey eyes, that told of longer years than were even in the memories of his father's generation. He did not know the age of this elf, but though the body was young, the eyes held pain and joy, beyond that which he had experienced and he was at a loss. So many years had it been since men had mixed with the Elder race in Gondor. Yet it had been a wish of his to see the fair beauty of the elves, to seek their wisdom. The encroaching shadow had destroyed all hope of that. And now one stood before him, and he felt almost reverent amid his grief to have seen what so many would never see. The touch of this being sent waves, like flecks of warm water against the skin, through his body, in surprise he felt his grief subside a little and was amazed by the warmth of the touch and the trust the fair being invested in him by such intimacy.

Trying desperately to pulls the shards of his life towards him, forming some sort of sense, Hellian breathed deep then decided to take action. "Come, we must move from here. I shall take you to my lodgings, sir…" he realised he was still unsure of how to treat so noble a guest, "I wish to pay you some token of gratitude for the deliverance of my sons, for without you it seems this day I should have nothing."

"If you would do but one thing for me sir at the moment," Legolas intertwined, "It would be to aid my secrecy. Though I have come among men before, my experiences are such as have made me aware that elves are not always welcome in the world of men." His eyes were once more furtive, like rabbits in the wilderness and he drew his cloak tighter to him as if sensing the danger of distrust even in the air around him.

"If that be the case my Lord," Hellian seemed to apologise as though upon his shoulders rested the guilt of his people. "I shall bring you at once to my quarters and there you shall rest in secret, for none shall know of your existence as long as you remain with me and if there is anything more you would have me do to aid you. You have only to request it and it shall be done; for I am ever in your debt."

"There is much I would speak of," whispered the elf, in a voice slow and wide with sorrow, "I have travelled many miles and many further into more difficult conditions have I yet to go. But I would not speak of that here, for the shadow even now rests upon Minas Tirith and I do not wish to be seen." With that Hellian turned, having uttered not another word, and led them away from the wall, down the steps, eyes ever behind, darting like dragonflies, sensing the danger of the elf's coming. He spoke but a word of thanks to Amandil who stood with expectancy at the gate, nodded at the boys as they walked past. Then the four began to make their way through the gentle rise of the narrow streets of the city of Kings.

**An Impossible Journey**

"Utterly impossible," spoke the voice; like knives it tore. To Legolas it slashed his hope; he found it in shreds. But what had he thought? How could this end with anything but death. How could one overcome such bitter obstacles?

"There must be a way." He pleaded, voice rocking like a boat in the wind, the pain and fear of capsizing so close. "I shall go with or without your help, but without it shall be harder. But I shall not leave Estel to this fate." The elf's face, unusually flushed, was desperate in its pinkish glow, almost a reflection of the stubborn flame that burned bright within his slate like eyes. Determination seethed through him and he felt ready to face any foe of Mordor. "If there is nothing more to say I must go," words more courageous and cold than any he felt within his anguished mind.

"There is naught in Mordor except death and shadow." Hellian pleaded reason, for he had seen the black gate face to face. Knew the terror of the sharp metal that seemed to keep evil at bay and yet was a rigid reminder of the shadow that lurked, growing stronger. At long last he sighed, a final attempt to dissuade such foolishness. His voice was begging now, like thirst he spoke, and his words were tinged with fear. "I have seen the black gate, stood cowering under the iron hinges, large as the head of a man, hard and cold, dark like shadow. Orcs and fouler beings besides stand atop the gate, like teeth they seem ready to bite the land, and there is ever the knowledge of lurking shadow just metres behind. Grown men of Gondor will n'er even face the gate for it speaks of a danger that most acknowledge still only in dreams."

Legolas looked into the man's eyes, registered the fear for the future that lay deeply embedded; lay anchored in the minds of his kinsmen. The shadow had crept into his mind too, it seemed always there, and he could feel the unmoving glare of the eye of Sauron on the city. Here the shadow concentrated its power. It seemed to Legolas that he saw the shadow of the black gate reflected in the fear of this man, who had stood in the way of Goblins, and had driven Orcs from his land. He was built like the wall of the city; yet this he feared above all else.

Then in a voice quieter yet Hellian spoke again, deeper now, like the failing of a candle in the darkness, "none who have passed the black gate have ere returned. They are lost to us and we know not the evil to which they succumb. Many have been lost to slavery for the Corsairs are cruel and cunning. Now the city bolts her gates at night and none shall enter, nor shall any men go alone beyond these walls as darkness falls. To go thus, is to wish death upon oneself."

"And still I shall go," quivered the voice of Legolas, the embedded fear reached him, shuddered through his spine as he fought to be resolute. "For I know he has not perished, I feel it, and though he is weak, he fights on. If you could but understand the importance of this man…" For a moment he could not speak, there were no words for such a loss, "… without him we shall be lost." Then fearing he had said too much he fell silent, giving way to despair and ruin.

Suddenly, a candle in the dark seemed to be lit, and a voice, cut through the despair. But its sound rand deadly in the ears.

"Father," spoke the voice, small it seemed indeed, compared with the awe of the silence surrounding them. "I will accompany Legolas to Mordor."

**Do not go where I cannot follow**

Hellian's eyes turned in horror towards his son, and Legolas head fell in dejection. The words were as if the beat of Orc drums had entered the room, or as the creak of the black gate, for they were tinged with dread for all.

Unable to stand at such an offer, Hellian's knees sank beneath him and he was forced to take a seat. Eyes seemed to gain hands, reached out in grief, and hands within his lap shook as his world took yet another tumble. A landslide beneath him, his world seemed to lie shattered and scattered about him once more.

Arun began again, "I know that I have been wrong father, I should not have left mother alone and this would not have come to pass. Furthermore this elf saved myself and Haran from the certain death of Mordor. He was willing to risk his life for us; therefore I shall lay my life and my sword before him. I am young but I have skill with a sword, and I fear the shadow but little."

This stunning offer, bored deep into the heart of the elf, and he wished he had never come across this place, and yet was amazed by the nobility and courage of such an offer in one so young. Truly Arun would grow into a great man, for his loyalty shone like the candle he seemed to offer, warm and inviting it seemed so tempting to accept. He had come to Gondor hoping only for some news of the Corsairs, perhaps to discover their route to the land of shadow, or discover some secret road by which he might enter. But to ensnare in his search the aid of one so young, it was a burden that weighed like lashes upon his back. Tears once more found themselves clogged in the corners of his eyes and he mourned the innocence of the young.

"Nay Arun," (it seemed to him he wept): "I should never allow it. This journey I would willingly undertake alone, but you have no cause. You must remain here with your father and stay young." Sighing into the silence, timeless as the night within forests and deep as the creak of the trees, Legolas began to face the reality of his situation. "Few shall survive the fires of Mordor, which would burn you to the core of your being, until even if you were to return you should be a shell of yourself. I would not have you lose your innocence so soon, for such a price."

As this exchange, like a stage in front of his eyes, played itself out, deliberate and dreadful as the tread of Orcs within forest, Hellian sat; and the tears had never left his cheeks. Instead they painted curious patterns, unknown in the world before, across the skin of his cheeks, grim and lined, and through his beard. Grief and despair it seemed had printed their indelible signature across his face, and he thought that he might not see a darker day than yet. And yet when he heard the voice of his son it seemed to him, as it did to his son that he offered a candle in the darkness, however weak the flame, however it faltered above the wick, this sacrifice spoke of the good left in the world, and he knew that he would have done the same. Torn now, between this new comprehension and the tug of his conscience, the dread rift that seemed to rip itself through him he knew not which evil he should choose. How should he now react? He could not lose his son, and yet he looked into the despair like a hole to the core of the Earth within the elf's eyes, something told him the request for aid should not be ignored. At last, he thought, I know….

**End of part VII**


	8. VIII

**Part VIII**

**DUSKLANDS**

**Father and Son**

"Aye…. you must go." The voice of his father, taut and choked with grief and realism, spoke the words that Arun never expected to hear. Bracing himself, he was ready for heavy onslaught. Battle ready as he was, he knew that his father would be difficult to persuade, and he was determined to prove himself. What he had been blind to was his father's understanding. Hellian knew as his son did not the need for this acceptance of his son's need, like his own, to prove this manhood, willingness to give himself to the cause of others. And yet as young as his son was now, Hellian had stood before his own father, eyes ablaze, begging the same freedom that his son now craved. It had been denied. His father, blocked his vision and his path, forced his hand in the direction of rebellion, that he never wished to take. He saw now the same eyes, as though peering through the ripples of a lake, calm and deep. He would not lose his son in the same way that he had, like a rift in the earth, fallen away from his own father. Bridges had been tried but still they fell like rotten wood. Arun would resist such an obstacle. Hellian knew whether he wished it or not, the boy would follow the elf to Mordor, read like tread of the sun from morning till night the path of his son's thoughts. If his son returned they would still have the bond. If not, it seemed to him that to lose his son to the fires of Mordor in a willing act, for another whose importance had been stated, was better than to lose his son to the stubborn gorge between father and son so alike in nature. Submit or lose he thought or both, the choice was unthinkable and yet made.

Arun turned sharply so unready he was for the words that came, his retort to his father's refusal so fresh in his brain that he could not speak for several moments. Instead, unsteadily, he moved towards his father and in a movement of sudden submission, (even he did not expect the gesture), knelt at the feet of the man, whom he had always imagined himself to be, placed his hand on his father's and looked directly into the worn eyes; those that had seen the black gate.

"I would not lose my son to the shadow," quiet and persistent his father spoke now. Understanding had brought him complacence and time to think; "… yet I know that should I refuse consent you would go nonetheless. Tis' truly a noble quest and should be celebrated as such and I shall not take away from the honour of your pledge." Pride slipped through the words, dripped into the silence of dread. Despite all, this was his son, willing to go so far into unknown evil; that in itself was a proof of the survival of good in the world. Hellian saw, and was thus comforted. Men would yet live, he thought.

Legolas, trapped between the compliance of these two wills, fell silence with a reverence which acknowledged the courage, fortitude and love which blossomed in the darkness of this world of men. Thus humbled he thought: few elves would have performed a similar feat. There was naught to do now but accept, for the outcome seemed already decided, and deep within his dread of the dark days ahead his soul wept for the mercy of this offer. Grateful to exhaustion that he would not face the road alone, for it seemed to him a terrible one, and that little hope lay at the end.

"Then there is no more to say, it is decided then," relented the elf with heavy breath. "For such an offer I can no longer refuse. Instead, since it is in my power to do naught else, I will kneel at your feet in the nobility of this action. The road ahead is a dangerous one and I do not bind you to me, I shall press you to go no further than you will. Yet it will be an honour to travel at your side. I know only one other that would do as you have done, and it is he that I seek." In a motion of deference equal to that of Arun to his father, an elf, of the elder people of the world knelt at the feet of a boy, the fraction of his age and felt himself unworthy.

**The citadel of the stars**

The dark thick cloth, bound tight around his mouth filtered Legolas' breath and he found he had to breathe deeper in order to move as far. Like the evil it represented it constricted him and he felt heavy and awkward behind the mask, yet it was the only disguise that could be offered. Even now, between the dark folds, the empty expression was missing. His fair locks and hairless chin could be hidden from view, folded away under the cover of evil. It was in his slate grey eyes, so telling of his soul, bright with joy, pain and a thousand years of experience. His life, his love of it and hatred of shadow, scored the very pupils, and they could no more die down than could the force of Anduin as it hit the rocks of a waterfall. If one was to look into his eyes they seemed as but a window to the anger and despair that lived in his mind. He walked now with his head down, and in his wish to be hidden, came closer than he realised to the bent gait of the Corsair, back bowed with the weight of the shadow. For although they had chosen their end, it seemed they have turned away from the sun, in their cover they could no longer feel the presence of light.

Arun walked behind, tried to imitate the bend of the elf's head and the slant of his walk. His youth still evident in his hesitant movements, following the example of those he looked to as a child learning to walk and he absorbed all. He might stand in silence and wonder and those who watched would feel him inattentive or dull and yet the answers came, for he always listened. Now shadow like in his imitation, it seemed to Legolas that he became the Corsair, had the mannerisms of the young boy he had seen below from the tree, and in moving the elf felt he might learn as much from the boy who might be moulded so easily. So quickly can the paths of the young be changed he recollected and for a moment Legolas' mind wondered once more to the Corsair boy whose life had been taken so short of time. He too had merely followed orders, would he have been so different from Arun? In his mind he relived the moment and was briefly frightened by the power of life and death he seemed to wield so easily. Given the choice, and knowing what evil the boy's future might hold, would it have been right to have taken the life no matter what? Shaking his head of the thought, letting it fall to the depths of his mind Legolas tried instead to prepare for the journey ahead, recollecting in sadness once more that this was the price the shadow brought, enemies could not be told apart but came under one collective title of evil, and on the side of good as he saw himself, there was no choice but to eliminate.

As the sun began to lower itself in the west (light still found its resting place in the west of the world) they passed the ruins of the city of Osgiliath 'The citadel of the stars'. Neither Arun nor Legolas had looked upon the ruins of the city, once as great as Minas Tirith in its magnificence where the glory of Numenor now lay blemished and spent. White were the bricks that lay in the road, glimmering like the stars they were named for in the growing twilight. But where now were the stars which shone upon this city in the days of her youth, when she was the pride of men? The Dunedain, true heirs to this land and its city lived scattered and divided and their hope now seemed lost, beyond hope, in the fires of Mordor. None remained now except the birds in the dusklands of Osgiliath. Legolas felt his hope wane as he looked upon the ruins of the works of men. Stone walls fell so easily, as did men's souls.

Yet, he had only to look upon Arun, who already laid the first logs of a fire to keep them from the touch of frost, and he knew that though men might fall, these ruins had stood to the test of time, and would stand longer yet.

The road that lay beyond them, on the Eastern bank of Anduin the Great was invisible in the pitch of night and the river lay calm as glass, as though it was not there at all.

"How is it?" asked Arun, shrouded in the folds of night; "that you are willing to undertake such a journey, to risk your own death even though tis' likely there is no hope?" His expression was hidden by the creases of cloth that wrapped themselves around his face and his voice was muffled and yet Legolas fancied he could read the expression that lay upon his features. Misunderstanding still worked its way into the boy's consciousness and he did not equate his own situation with this.

"As you offer to do for me, so I do that is all." Legolas tried to be honest, allowing the griefs he tried so hard to conceal to show, although in the darkness they could not be seen except in the flicker of flames. "There is more resting in this task than I believe my life is worth, therefore I am ready to give it."

Arun listened to the words and sensed that like himself, as the night and flickering flames that hid them slightly from one another, so were the answers of the elf, there was more than they told. He gave little away, and his grief lay beneath the surface. Only in certain words, as though lit by the momentary iridescence of flame were his fears visible. Legolas knew that Arun wanted more, needed to understand why he would go on, in order to understand himself a little. Each had their own reasons for risking themselves, and a different thing they would risk themselves for. Arun acted from guilt and wished to prove himself, maybe even for revenge Legolas did not know.

Relenting he continued. "You have heard me speak of this man, the one for whom I search. Perhaps he, if nothing else, is the reason. In the end I am not willing to give him up yet. This friend in whom I place my hope I would not live without; and therefore I would risk my life, despite the fear that breathes within me."

"Who is this man?" Arun questioned once more, astonished still by the bond that seemed to exist between the elf and a man, a bond he had never heard of before in his world; where the gulf between the races, deep as ocean bed was accepted, expected. What good came from the elves, they who had forsaken them in their hours of darkness people asked?

Legolas answered quietly, a mere breath in the darkness, as the burden of his loss was bared for a second. In the darkness Arun did not know if he wept, but felt the weight of a new grief.

"He is the beat of my heart."

**The Farther Shore**

When light dragged with it morning, Arun awoke and taking a boat crossed they Anduin, calm in the dawn breeze, to the farther shore. For Legolas it seemed that now he entered a new stage of his journey. The land seemed the same and yet for him everything was changed; trees seemed tinged with a new darkness, the sky a little closer, a little more oppressive. Searching for answers he realised that this was the furthest from his experience that he had ever known. Alien though he had been in the world of men, there were enough links with his own world to make it familiar if different, but Mordor… How did one survive such a change? He kept in his mind only that Estel must have survived it if the quest was to gain success and as he took each step he reassured himself unrelentingly with this thought

They were now in the green woods of Ithilien, unspoiled as yet by the lengthening shadow that festered in the East. Legolas walked fast now, mind barely connecting with the beauty around him, for in his nullity with the loss of his friend he often lost his appreciation of the natural world, once essential to his being. He bent his thought on the black gate and said little to Arun as they stepped closer and closer to the door behind which evil hoarded.

Arun wished to talk with the elf, ask him of his home or the history of the elves that in his own education had been completely neglected. Most of all he wished Legolas to speak of the man they sought, his importance. Arun felt his importance as it evaporated from the elf even in unconscious moments. In his sleep Legolas, moaned and reached out and the boy watched in interest as the hands of the elf lifted away from the body and seemed to search the air, then, finding it empty, slumped to his side once more in despair. It seemed his energy with his despair tumbled to the ground. Arun wondered what it was the elf searched in his dreams.

Both were feeling the effects of their disguises and Arun wished to cast the itching material from his face, and yet it provided his only cover. It angered him that he should have to take on the prison like garb of his captors in order to destroy their work, as though he was once more submitting to their cruelty. Unsure of how to gain entry to Mordor once they had reached it Hellian had suggested they should go under the guise of Corsairs, that at least on the journey they might not be accosted, even if they did not know the language. They were alone in passing the threshold of the dark land, hearing the creak of the hinges like the door of a prison, but with no to peer through even for light. Both companions considered the strangeness of their apparel, that in order to do good, they should yet hide beneath the cover of surreptitious darkness.

Once across the river they turned slightly north. Within Ithilien they moved once more under the cover of trees and shuddering Legolas recollected the darkness that had collected in Mirkwood, until the lives of the elves themselves that lived under its eaves had been touched with the sadness of the bruise that came with the brush of evil. Ithilien with its green roof, the faint smell of living foliage that enlivened the senses seemed to Legolas what Mirkwood had now become a shadow; his mourning grew.

Both seemed lost in the wilds of their minds, tortured thoughts, when, from behind, there came the twang of a bowstring. Working with the most basic of his senses, learned from travelling through the wilderness of Middle Earth Legolas fell to the Earth imperceptibly, in such silence that Arun did not automatically follow. He felt a gentle tug at his feet and a hiss of danger, and then both disappeared behind a tree and watched.

**Forgotten Memories**

Night painted Mordor a deeper shade of black; so dark tonight that even the moon was hidden. In the darkness lay the aching limbs of the prisoners. Most of them fell to murky sleep as soon as they hit the hard rock below them, forcing sharp pillows of needless stone into their backs. In their fatigue this meant nothing, only another dent in rough skin. Only Aragorn fought the pain of sleep, moved against the needles of rock to keep himself from falling further. For in the dark of sleep the blurs of broken memory still spoke like spears of his loss. They had not returned to him, and he was still fearful of the void they left. Yet in him like the roots in the ground at the end of winter almost extinguished by the cover of frost, the spirit grew strong once more, nurtured even by the contact of those that surrounded him. The lifting of his spirits, even when so haunted and crushed by such a place, seemed to do the same for those around him. And even in the darkness and even in the hopelessness of the watch of Orcs they felt he had some thing to offer. In their silence all wondered at the nameless stranger, on whose face the grim nobility, tired by the toil was bared for all to see.

Shivering in the cold breath of night air, Sador too was wakeful and in the black and white of limited vision, like Aragorn's dreams he watched the blurred form of his friend as he huddled against the power of ice as though it might at any moment take his breath.

"Tell me something Sador," spoke he asked suddenly, unexpected in the cold silence as if reassurance was all that was needed. "Please," (he was begging now) "for I have no memories to live from. I shall not survive if this is all that I remember, my mind will not survive the touch of evil forever." The plea tore at Sador's heart for though he hurt in this place, in the darkness and release that midnight brought he could still disappear into dreams of former life. Despite the terror that they might belong to some terrible lie, at least they were there and vivid in their expression.

"Of what would you have me tell?" He wished to comfort the man, starved of contact as he was, even beyond hope he could not imagine what it was to be no one.

"Tell me of your family, something of your identity; anything that is a good memory. For all I see now is darkness, whether my eyelids hide this barren wasteland or not." As though desolation had once more taken hold and the vacancy of the words frightened Sador more than the threat of being heard. So he began.

Into the darkness, where there was naught to see except what lived in the imagination Sador now wove his tale. So imperceptible it was that no Orc ears knew and yet for Aragorn the tale seemed as a song that lulled in the dark and brought with it comforting sleep.

"As a child I grew up close to my sister, for there was but a year between us. She is gone now, but when she lived she filled with laughter and the devious nature of infancy. We roamed the streets of the white city together and my mother could not separate us. Often she found herself walking the streets beyond the change of day to nightfall, as we had still not returned." The memory seemed pleasant to him and sighing for a moment he stopped lost in the reveries of the past, comforting and full of colour as they were, like a salve they broke the harsh monotony of this dying landscape, perhaps it was already dead.

"There was a day…" he began again, words spinning like the web of many spiders and yet without the cold gaps. In the sunlight of his tale even the air that bit with frost seemed a little warmer. "It was in the midst of summer this day that comes to my mind before all else, just now in the moment of darkness. We had stolen my father's helm, for he was a guard of the city and fierce proud of his livery so much that we might never touch it. Taking it we climbed the walls of the city for in youthful minds there were dragons there. My sister took the helm first, for in all play she was bold and fierce and believed through some feat of bravery she would remove all evil from the city. In the tension and excitement of battle we forgot ourselves and leaving the walls in quest made our way unknown through the streets of the city where kings have walked."

At the mention of the tread of kings something jarred in Aragorn's memory but though he fought he could not remember why these words should make an impact and in the weariness that came with battling the pain of his dim world of forgotten memories. There was something in that he knew, the hint of a path he should lead, but he had not the strength, not yet. Sador's voice continued like the humming of birds.

"It was the day of a festival and the steward was taking part in a tour of the city, He walked through the streets in a signal of open equality with his people. My sister and I were completely oblivious, so obsessed we were with the chase and the quickened race of the pulse that came with it. So overcome were we with the excitement that it seemed we had stepped even into the world of legend. The helm was large and awkward and my sister could not see clear behind it. We had climbed to the roof of a house that overlooked the street, when, looking out over the city my sister in her short-sighted vision thought she spied the hunt. 'There' she cried, "there lies the dragon.'"

With the passion of his voice it seemed to all that lay scattered close by, intent in this sign of hope, of a meaningful past, that Sador had returned to the streets of his youth, tense with the rush of the chase, wide eyed at the moves of his sister. Sador remained persistent with the words that were as ingrained in him as the scars from the rocks he cleaved in the day.

"I stood steps behind her and could not call when she disappeared into the crowd, tumbling it seemed, from the edge of the house. I rushed to the rim of the roof and looked across the path of the procession, then, with horror, I spied her. In her excitement she had flung herself into the path of the steward, Ecthelion. I stood rooted to the spot with the terror of punishment that might come from my parents and watched the events unfold themselves.

I saw her, as she saw naught, for the helm had now completely covered her eyes. Being young she did not comprehend totally the actions that she undertook, but in amusement and curiosity she thrust her wooden sword into the leg of the steward. I cried out in the shame of the action, blushed with the embarrassment I naturally assigned to her. Having felt the stab in his leg the Lord Steward stumbled and I went to explain that my sister was but young and he must forgive her action, for she did not know what she did. As I made ready to jump to the ground I saw Lord Ecthelion kneel and address her, removing the vision blocking helm from her head. At this I finally left my viewing post and made my way to her side.

'Boy' he spoke, sudden as rain and I quaked in my young boots, 'is this your sister.' I could not reply in speech but nodded vehemently. Yet the words that came from him were kind and soft, he laughed at our actions, patted me on the head and said, "then you should be wary child to be in the company of so brave a shield maiden, for her deeds are bold.' As I looked it seemed that he winked and then leaning down once more he lifted my sister to his feet. 'Child I hope that when I shall see you in years to come your helm shall fit a little better." Then removing her to admonish he began once again the procession."

For the first time since being captured, the first time he remembered, Aragorn felt the springing of laughter, like the bursting of water under the ground unstoppable and so refreshing in its vivacity. He did not ask what had become of this sister for the moment was too precious and he did not wish to mar the remembrance with tales of grief. In this he felt his strength renew for the world from which he had come was a good one it seemed if such was the reaction to the play of children, for in them above all remained the hope for the future. Reaching out his hand, bound as it was to Sador he thanked him with the lightest caress of his shoulder and in the forging of a new memory, be it not his own, fell into a dreamless sleep.

Nuth heard the sprinkling of laughter with surprise and distaste. It rang through the shadows of Mordor cutting the dry air with the strength of silver and blade and yet it drew forth not blood. But to the ears of the Orc the sound was bitter as the arms of sunlight that threatened to wither him with their piercing fingers of heat. He listened more intently and knew to whom the laughter belonged and with it there arrived for him, even from the dark recesses of his mind, a new thought that there was strength yet left in that man, who had come so close to being broken. That he would not submit so easily. Nuth spat in the hate of the sound and vowed like a tremor in the silence, that man would yet be forced to break; he had only to wait for this strength to show itself. He spat in the darkness and plotted.

**End of Part VIII**


	9. IX

**Part IX**

**VENGEANCE**

**Rise above it **

The heat of the day was like flies upon them, it stuck to their clothing creating a kind of glue with their sweat so that thick cloth moulded to the lines of the body becoming a second skin, not one that yielded but one that constricted. Deep in the chasms of Mordor Aragorn felt breathless with thirst, but there was no water, nor would he receive any answer but the beat of whip should he ask for any. It had seemed to him better to work, and not to question while despair held his mind and he saw no way out, nor could he cling to the frail blurs of his past, for they mocked him with their evaporating images.

Now he was different, in spite of all; the fevers that wrecked his body and told him each day would be his last and the schismatic pain of his shoulder that would not heal. Yet, beyond that he felt small springs of strength and rebellion rise up within him that he could not banish or push aside. It was not within him to submit to the lashes of evil however far he fell or to watch while others felt the dark oppression of punishment, uncalled for, unquestioned. He would not live like this but he would not die either so what alternative lay before him?

In the day with the thick clank of metal upon stone or stone upon metal, the endless traffic of industry that drained the strength and tore muscles like grass there was no space or silence in which to reflect or shape thoughts. Rather, the prisoners became mechanical in their movements, the circular motion of the hand with the hammer and the frightened blinking of eyes like prey that searched constantly, always evasive, for the hands of the Orcs that fell more often and with no mercy on those of lesser strength.

For the first time, since… he did not remember when (that too had blurred into a blackened past) Aragorn was aware of other things, than the interminable thud and grind of the tools in his hand against the unyielding strength of rock. He noticed the others that worked. On some he saw the faces blank and tired, ready to fall. Lines like the fletching of arrows scarred their faces and they seemed old, not in years but in sufferings, the lives of Mordor were irrevocably shortened.

For a moment he stopped. Rock before him stood imperishable and broad. Black as the bite of nails it was hard and firm, as though in communion with the Orcs that seemed to watch with glee for the failure of men; waited for the axe to slip in order to follow with the coaxing of leather and metal. Sweat made Aragorn's face gleam, even in the mouth like gloom of the abyss and it ran into the cracks of the scars; the salt was bitter against the soft tissue of new skin and stung. The bite of his axe was not enough and the force of his swings seemed to send blades of pain through his shoulder and his limbs that ached as the monotony of walls without colour. But the pain was not blinding, not yet. The rock was like teeth, or perhaps it was the bone that is gnawed upon and will break the teeth. In the end they snap, leaving gaping holes and blood, but the bone remains a constant; so it was with the rock of Mordor.

For a second his eyes journeyed, not like prey, but with careful precision for they alone retained the slight thrill of the freedom of movement. He saw that the eyes of the Orcs were not upon him. He wished to look upon Sador. His friend, who had until now been working within the free particles of the air, (they alone could move at will in the Shadowland) had been consigned to the stifling air of the underworld. His strength had been discovered and now he too suffocated beneath the veil of the Earth's shadow.

In the depth of the abyss even light itself seemed to escape from the rim, feet and feet above; further than the tread of feet it seemed, (it was all that could) and prisoners, even with the aid of lamps. were left squinting for vision. Aragorn's quick eyes, now used to the toil of stealth lighted upon a boy, no more than sixteen he would have guessed, no more than a child with the hair, flaxen like the golden halls of Rohan. He wavered on his feet; swaying like the slightness of a breeze in a forest, so weak he had become and his thirst was like the snap of dry twigs. Aragorn looked in horror as the Orc that watched this portrait of weakening struck out his foot in front of the boy, and even as he carried the metal he fell and metal shattered on the hard floor that welcomed him to its spikes. The crash broke painfully the bash of tools against rock, tore through the ears of all, though not as harsh was it, as the small cry that came after, of fear and hopelessness. In that cry all heard the question, what else is there to do but fall?

Stricken with the malice of such movements, a violent hatred of the Orcs and their ways welled up in Aragorn at once. His mind, moving faster than his body could, he tore towards the frightened boy, his vision filled with the eyes of the Orc that seemed to grin in deadly delight at the prospect of terror in the boy's eyes. A fire renewed itself within the ashes of his spirit and the fingers of flame seemed to burn within his heart. The Orc raised the whip towards the sky, seeming for a second as though he would hurl it away. From where the boy lay it seemed magnified in size as though it sucked in the width of the sky. Above him it was a scar across the clouds and then with a sudden swish, more like a roll of thunder in his terror, it slashed through the air. But the lash expected never came to slice his skin.

**Fall For You**

Moving on autopilot now, (his fury and anguish did not afford him time to consider) Aragorn threw his body across the boy, with the desperation of a man who throws himself from a cliff. In some ways the reckless decision was the same, for he knew that interference in the wrath of an Orc must come at some cost, yet he knew too that he was ready to face it. The subjection of the captives haunted him as much as his blank dreams and he hated his defenceless, helpless state.

The whip, like hail, flung itself against his back, snaking with the force of the lash, sliding through the sweat that lingered in streams. Flinching against the inevitable thrash of the leather against his tense skin he bit his tongue until it bled as the sharp edges found the familiar ruts of previous scars and skin that had begun to cover was once more broken not in lines but in meanders. The captives did not look, for to look was to turn the wrath on themselves, but winced in time with the shriek of the cord against cotton and skin. Fresh stains crept into the fabric of Aragorn's tunic but still he clung to the boy beneath, shifting slightly that his thin body might offer more protection. Through the pain they imagined he must cry out, but Aragorn had already suffered much and he would not give them the satisfaction.

The flick of the switch seemed like the toll of the bell, rhythmic and regular. It was more forceful now. What had begun as the amusement of cruel hands became fury against defiance and it took a weak sigh from the ranger to remind his tormentor that the others were no longer working but openly mesmerised by the rhythmic hacking of flogging, like the beat of a dance it was the only sound to be heard now in the dusty air that floated like a faint screen around the body, aroused by the beat of the whip.

"Get back to work, all of you, or it won't just be him that gets knocked to the floor." The words like a dart of poison were all that was needed. Like rodents they scuttled back to the tasks that spared them this at least. Aragorn was left barely conscious clinging to the boy that lay beneath him. With the precision of arrows the Orc spat upon his face, then catching hold of Aragorn's damp tunic drew the limp face towards his own. Aragorn winced once more at the thrust of putrid breath that lingered in his face like venom. Had he eaten he would have lost the contents of his stomach, instead he tasted bile. Words like the hail of the whip shredded his consciousness "I've not finished with you." He released the words like a bad taste, as though they could remain within his mouth no longer. The wrath of an Orc though easily raised is not easily settled. Then he let go and Aragorn's head fell to the floor, the bile of his stomach back to its pit.

The words fell like lead on the ears of those around him, heavy and deadly, words that stuck like sweat within their minds. But Aragorn would not quiver so easily. He was ready now. Let them come.

**Footfalls in the shadows**

Slowly, all energy seemingly drained from his body and with the strain of a man who must lift the Earth under him Aragorn raised himself slightly and rolled to the side. The boy lay where he was, fear still shone from his eyes, now wet with the salt of tears, his form scored into the dust underneath him. He looked across at the man, who had taken his punishment, now lying less than a metre from him, panting hard in the dull heat of the afternoon, breathing ragged as his tunic. For a moment, though released, he could not move; the fear of fate still within him. Then, realising that the Orcs had left, focused now on the others that had stopped in the silence of the scourging he moved slightly and subtly reached out his hand to the man he did not know.

Aragorn reached out, although the effort was almost too much and grasped the boy's hand lifting himself from the ground. The sigh of pain in movement echoed in the empty air around them and he listened as it reverberated in his mind. The cling of his damp tunic stung slightly against the flayed skin of his back and made him somewhat breathless when he tried to move. Nonetheless, with the boy's help, he raised himself to his knees. His eyes, flickering in the ache of stirring, flitted toward Sador whose eyebrows seemed to convey the message, "let me come to you." Aragorn shook his head in frustration. No! he thought, it would not do to have him dragged within the eye of the Orcs, to have them know of his friendship. For his own body he did not care, he was reckless now. But Sador, he who offered the candle, so fragile in his darkness, he could not risk the loss.

The eyes of his overseer were on him again now and too weak to stand another punishment just then Aragorn pushed his hands against the constant earth, then, putting his hand within that of the boy raised him too, bleary eyed with tears. "Go child," he whispered, his voice airy from his breathless rising. "Keep your strength with you. For the road ahead is long and there are many days as this to live." Then, without another word, he staggered back toward his rock face, lifted his axe as though it held the weight of his grief and began again to scourge the rock..

Evening came pouring navy blue sky into the crevices of Mordor, blotting the grey light that day offered. When they were brought the meagre offering of grey bread, bread that burned the stomach, punishing the body for consumption Aragorn tore it and threw half toward the boy, who sat a few feet from him with the other youths, bathed in the silence of hunger. For a moment the boy gazed across with hungry eyes, hungry for love Aragorn thought, but for now, bread would have to suffice. Such a sacrifice, even one so small was representative of that. Even this stuff, evil and black, that tore the teeth, rebelling against their own role, offered some form of nurture, some fortitude to survive the night.

He imagined he had been covert, moving when the backs of the Orcs were turned, but fate did not work thus it seemed. Nuth, it was who had seen the actions of the foolish man. He laughed bitterly to himself and jeered at the thought of sacrifice. Moving closer to the man he crowed, black like the bird, but without the soft feathers. "I wouldn't sacrifice myself so easily with noble deeds here. No point. It's each man for himself. Only a fool would do it. None of them would do it for you. What a waste." Then, grinning with sour delight he moved off, but his eyes were ever on the man in whose eyes burned the flame that wished to scar him..

Moving under cover of darkness that in between the shadows of Mordor came as a friend and not an enemy, Sador tended the scars of his friend ever aware of the passage of clouds across the moon, when he would be hidden from the sight of prying eyes. Dark hid from him the squint of Aragorn's eyes when the bite of ash (for that was all they had to cleanse) was too bitter, his back was black now, tinged with the fabric of Mordor, but it no longer ran red. Still, it was painful to lie and he had rather sleep sitting, arms huddled around himself against the cold. Icy fingers worked their way into the myriad of scars that decorated his back, painting his punishment for all to see. The hands of Orcs were not idle, for them it seemed torture was art.

Weary with exhaustion and hunger, weak with the loss of blood that slid from his back, Aragorn fell into a feverish half sleep. Like a snake he slid to and from consciousness and in his nightmares he could not tell whether he woke or slept, both were blocked with the visions of his pain. The blood within his mouth seemed to taste of the blurred images of taunting dreams and it was as though all his senses had become one and he heard the pain within his back as much as feeling it.

Gently, wishing to relieve even a little of the pain Sador placed his arms bound as they were around Aragorn's shoulders, drawing him to himself for the little warmth that human spirit might offer. Aragorn's form convulsed with shivers but slowly he seemed to become calmer as he felt the steady embrace of warm skin and he shook only as the sway of a flower in a gentle breeze. Sador could feel the tense shoulders and vertebrae jutting through thin cotton as the man relaxed into his grip and his shivers like sobs became less intense.

But sleep offered no rest for the bite of the wounds in his back would taunt him with movements, forcing consciousness back into his body. Waking for a moment he felt lost, whose arms were these that held him? He remembered arms slender but strong, but could not place them. Then, at first faint as fierce whisper and then louder as though they were already upon him Aragorn heard the fall of feet in the dark and the stones shuddered slightly in the disturbance of the earth. Someone approached.

**End of Part IX**


	10. X

**PART X**

**SOMETHING INSIDE SO STRONG**

**Nothing given**

The violence had begun in a distant cloud of dust, which not even Legolas' sharp eyes were able to penetrate, but they had both heard the clash of swords or knives, imagined the fall of blood. It seemed like a tornado moving closer to them. For a moment they feared they must leave their hiding place and join this battle that seemed to have no allies. This was not the battle of men skilled in fight, this was for the struggle of death. The dust parting for a moment, in the blur before them the boy and the elf saw shreds of black cloth, heard shreds of an unknown language. Limbs seemed to emerge in odd directions and it was clear that the fight would soon be over

At last, as their limbs became stiff with waiting it was over. There was a thud ahead of them and the dust began to settle. In fear they waited, apprehensive, watching for any sign of movement. None came.

Legolas moved first, cautious and light footed on the soft ground. Before them lay the bodies of two Corsairs; the boy and the elf recognised in them their own mirror images. From the chest of one hung the arrow they had heard. It was close to his heart and deadly. The other was unconscious and bleeding, but his wounds did not seem grievous. Hauling him from the ground Legolas dragged the limp body away into the trees, bound his hands and waited. He would not lose his captive this time.

As daylight fell away in the west they came to a resting place, the boy the elf and the captive. He was lucid now though still sluggish from the blood loss of his wounds. He had been forced to walk as soon as his eyelids had flickered and now he stumbled, on tired feet, into a pile on the ground, helped by a slight nudge from the elf. His hands were bound and he had not yet spoken a word. Legolas, ever wary of the threat of strangers in the night, lit a fire in the centre of their small circle of humanity. The glow and warm scent of flames seemed to bring hope back to his features. He turned on his captive, face demanding answers and began at once.

"What is your name?" he asked. It seemed only courteous to do so, even with an enemy. The man did not oblige but in his eyes there could be read his distrust of the situation. "You will not give it then," responded the elf; and a dangerous note of irritation had entered his voice. "It makes no matter for we shall walk no matter what, accompaniment is not an option. Whether you should choose to grace us with fellow humanity is your own choice. It seems clear that you had parted from your fellow men, which seems to leave you alone with us." There was an edge of bitter humour alongside the words and he seemed to bite the air.

**I heard them come**

Suddenly Aragorn felt cruel nails wrest him from the sharp ground. Roughly he was dragged from the strong grip of Sador. Though his legs, limp from beating were defiant, in their weakness they could not hold him there. When he refused to move he felt knuckles connect with the bottom of his ribcage and he was thrust into the arms of another. Sador, his hands bound before him pushed all the strength he possessed into the holding the man to him. Then in the darkness, a boot in his stomach, and he fell back. Breath was wrenched from his body and he was left silently alone.

Uncertain in the blinding light of night, Aragorn stumbled as he tried to escape from strong hands. His legs failed him and led him in the direction he would not take. They stopped, shook him, then placed a bag over his head. The pores were narrow and the weave suffocating. The darkness was suffocating too and the sense of being lost. There was no way to turn back now. They held the power and knew it, for his body was weak like mankind.

He thought they led him toward the pit of daytime and work. His feet against the earth told him so. With the loss of sight his feet became eyes. Then they stopped. He did not know where.

A voice, it seemed to belong to Nuth, "teach him, but don't kill him."

Something pulled on the rope around his hands and his ears strained for explanation but the sounds were too vague. Then he was released by the hands. Such had been the pull of the hands that for a moment the shock of release caused him to fall to his knees. He tried to crawl away but reaching a certain distance found himself thrown backward as something held him in place. He guessed that something was attached to the rope which constricted his hands and he panicked.

Then, for a moment there was silence. He could hear the shriek of the night air and wondered if they had left him alone to freeze in the darkness.

They had not…

From nearby a noise! Then pain pulsed through him. A fist round and fierce found its way into his gut. Disorientated by the deprivation of his sight he had not expected it to come. Silence had left him defenceless and tense. The silence returned.

When the next bite of skin came against him he was tensed in preparation, arms acting as a shield as much as they could. The gaps of silence were irregular and he found it almost impossible to predict where the next jab would come from. He seemed to live in a blur of pain, as close to his dreams as though he lived within. A heavy blow came against his forehead and he staggered backwards his side, bruised from beating smashed hard against the Earth and he felt the warmth of liquid within the cage of the bag.

He could no longer see the weave but inside it swirled bright colours; circles of green and red. He tried to stand… to run… but felt himself once more tossed to the ground by a rope.

"Escape if you think you can," jeered the countless voice from outside his prison. "Go on, retaliate, it's not like you not to put up a good fight."

Aragorn thought of his flailing limbs as they tried to decipher the direction of his tormentors and would not give them the satisfaction. His organs seemed bruised against his skin and he thought he could feel the spread of black across his torso. The sharp rock beneath him bit at his legs; shredding skin. His teeth came down hard upon his tongue as he refused to cry out yet confusion seemed determined to force weakness from him.

Then there came a thinner pain that slashed harder. They had clubs now he thought. The hits were as hard but more concentrated. They ripped at broken skin threatening to strike his consciousness from him. Once more they hit his head and he seemed to fly through the air. For a moment he wondered if he was dead. Then the rope which held him became taut and spikes of rock were in his side. This time the sudden jolt forced a cry from feverish lips, refusing to bind themselves shut any longer. This seemed to delight his torturers and they giggled with delight.

Blinding… the last pain he remembered was shocking and fierce, the thin sharp pain of a blade embedded in deep skin.

Sador had heard the cries in the dark, and his mind shivered with memory. Then silence shocked him and his eyes tried to pierce the night air for answers. Minutes or hours later there was a thud beside him and a limp figure dropped to the ground like an animal skin. He could smell blood. In the light of orcish eyes he saw the blood on Estel and his heart seemed to snap.

**A reluctant guide**

Legolas moved off, as if to attend to the fire. Arun sat by the man who was now bound to the tree. His eyes, ever watchful, took in each flicker of movement. He tried to stay aloof but the presence of such a man, in alliance with Mordor, drove him to the brink of fury. At length Legolas brought across Lembas bread, the waybread of the elves which sustained beyond all other sustenance. He tried to push some into the man's mouth, who could not feed himself. But he would not take it.

Arun's temper flared. "Why then should we keep such an animal alive? He does not speak, and treats all life with disdain, as commodity. We should kill him now." His dagger now rested at the man's throat, enjoying for a moment the fear that rose within black eyes.

Legolas turned almost instantly startled by the vengeful anger in the boy. It was only to be expected, but nonetheless it shocked him. Moving slowly forward (he did not wish to have the man's throat cut by accident) he edged toward them. Then, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the dagger he gently pulled Arun's hand away from the man's throat.

"There is no sense to kill him," Legolas spoke sadly and softly. Anger had disintegrated. "Should he speak he may be of use. Otherwise he is only one man alone and can cause us little harm." A sigh of relief in the man's throat seemed to echo his thoughts and his eyes pitied what he saw although his heart did not.

He turned back to the fire and in the glow his eyes were filled with sorrow, until in the shadows behind he heard a new noise.

"Zimran" the voice struggled reluctantly against the guilt so new to it. Legolas turned.

"Your name?" Legolas queried, his eyes once more like a bird of prey, he wanted more. "How came you then to be in this situation."

In this Zimran was more forthcoming, feeling all the treachery of his men as though the world was against him personally. "My men were mutinous and angry. We did not make enough money with our last sale and so they turned on me. I fought many of them off, until I thought them dead. The man you saw followed me, until turning I faced him. Then I killed him." He was silent for a moment to consider his situation and then with a bitter tone, "who are you that you should have the right to hold me so?" He was clear and did not falter as the boy in the forest.

"Who we are," Legolas allowed the authority of his position and his irritation to illustrate his words, "is none of your concern, for such knowledge will not improve your lot. However neither will we bring you more harm unless you should warrant it." He planned his sentences carefully, unwilling to part with information that could be used against him. "My friend, my brother…" at those words he breathed for a moment through the pain of loss, "… was carried to Mordor by men who might consider themselves allied with you. As payment for the evil caused by your people, you shall lead us to Mordor in order to rescue him should he still be there, or die in the attempt."

Zimran seemed genuinely surprised. He had not in his life experience such selfless generosity and it puzzled him. They were fools, he thought, if they believed they could enter Mordor and defeat the power of Orcs and men behind the black gate. He laughed out loud at the thought of two such tiny beings against the forces he had seen there. He grinned darkly, comfortable now with the saviour of his life, "he will be dead. There are none that will survive the fires of slavery in Mordor."

He breathed to find the blade of Arun once more at his throat. "Do not forget," he hissed, "that we still hold the power of death within our hands, if naught else. Life, it seems, you prize."

Legolas reached once more to calm the boy. Fear might help them, but he was not willing to lose this last link so soon.

Attempting to regulate his breathing, panic still flooding from his features Zimran no longer grinned. "There will be no way for you to pass the black gate without me." He retorted weakly. The knife wavered dangerously close again at this point. "Therefore I will lead you to the black gate, though I do not promise that you shall live beyond it."

"Very well," agreed Legolas, with some relief; violence was not yet necessary. "You shall have at least your life."

**A sense of Betrayal**

When morning light split the darkness all eyes were on the man that fell. Still he had not woken. The overseers poked at him waiting for response, but were greeted by nothing more than the twitch of his ribcage as it trembled with breath.

"Leave him." Nuth spoke not from kindness but from annoyance.

In the shock of dawn Sador cried out before he could stop himself "surely you see that if you do not help him he will die." The cry was desperate and basic like and animal. He did not think of consequences.

Nuth glared at the source of the voice, but it irritated him that the body of the man should escape him so easily. "Deal with him," he grunted, "tend his wounds, but don't make him too comfortable."

Sador stung with grief. In his head he argued and comforted Bellas by turn. His heart writhed within him and he did not know if grief or anger would prevail. He wished it would be grief but felt it would be anger. Bellas had suffered, Valar knew, but could he forgive this seeming need for self destruction. His own wounds were too fresh. With the heat of the pit his temper burned, his tears were not cold but scorched his cheeks and he wished the Orcs had punished him for his questioning. What was there left to trust to?

When night had returned and he fell with fatigue to the floor, Bellas' eyes sought him out. For the first time since he had been dumped the previous morning the eyes were open and searching. They showed that life yet remained. For a moment Sador welled with relief. Then dry from thirst, with lips broken and sore Bellas spoke to him.

"Sador… I….."

But Sador did not wish to listen. "Don't speak." The anger of his reply surprised even himself and he found he could not control the words that sprang from his mouth.

"If you are intent on continuing this path of self destruction then there is nothing left to say. As for myself I shall have nothing to do with it."

The silence spoke of the shock of his words and for a moment Sador relented. "Bellas I…" but the words seemed to intimate, too near. His anger too was close to the surface and his emotions battled to override one another. How could he understand?

"I won't," it seemed to him he choked. A single tear ran from his eye. "I can't see another I love destroy themself for no purpose."

This time Aragorn was ready with a reply. "Sador," he cried out for the empathy or understanding of the man. How could he survive with no purpose, to see other's treated so… did he not see that they wouldn't kill him? It was not self destruction but survival. His silent call went unheard, but he continued with more guard than his feelings should have allowed, "I do not look for trouble, but it pains me to see others suffer. I do not needlessly give myself, but cannot live in the knowledge that they are persecuted. Then he spoke the words closer to him, "while I fight I breathe."

Sador thought the concept incomprehensible. Of course this was just another way of getting himself killed. His irate thoughts told him that they were all the same, that giving oneself for another's punishment would help no one in the end. In frustration he wished to cry – do you not see I need you, for strength I named you to give me yours. What point is there when strength has turned to weakness?

His words when he used them were stiff, emotion was folded away. "I do not ask you to die for me, and neither do they. You do so needlessly. If you are to continue to afford life so little value then I must leave you to it. I have not the strength to live for both of us." The last statement tired, but brutal in honesty.

He turned, back towards the stunned ranger and closed his eyelids against the tears, regretting every word and every new breath.

**End of Part X**


	11. XI

**Part XI**

**ON THE BRINK**

**On the Brink**

Zimran seemed docile now. He led them through the woods as though he was a faithful dog. Arun did not trust this appearance of submissiveness. He fully believed that given the chance the Corsair would murder them both, or perhaps worse, lead them into slavery and evil in Mordor. Who knew what other kinship ties he had that might be fulfilled? For his part Arun kept his hand constantly on the hilt of his dagger.

For his part Zimran also had a fear of the boy with piercing eyes that seemed to part his thoughts. The elf was ready enough to believe in him, his relief obvious with their agreement. His desperation was still too near. Still, that wretched boy would get in the way; he was too fiercely protective of that elf. What he needed was to gain their trust.

Darkness had brought them out of the protective shades of Ithilien and into the cold barren land of the Morannon. Legolas shuddered when he thought how many days had been lost since Estel must have stood here. Behind them loomed the Dagorlad the 'Battle Plain' where bodies not grass had formed a carpet underfoot. Legolas shivered in the horror of a past that still seemed present. He felt the weight of the bodies that still seemed to lie there in the dust. Mordor pressed down on him and he once more began to doubt their mission. What if Estel was already gone? Surely he would know? Those words seemed engraved in his thoughts, as though they would immunise him to the possibility of his friend's demise.

"The day is falling away," he whispered, almost to himself.

"Nay," answered Zimran, loudly, as if to dispel the shadow from the air. "Here the sun is always hidden." As he said this he turned his face toward the sky and shuddered in the chill of the evening wind. Now faced with the prospect of the shadowland he feared. It represented a threat of more violence, of mutiny and of worse things that lived in the darkness. He always felt uneasy entering the land, preferred to conduct his business this side of the gate. Alone he feared the Orcs that abode there, one man alone meant nothing to them.

Arun shuddered, cold in the shadow. "That may be, but it is late in the day nonetheless. It will surely not do to enter the land of shadow so surreptitiously. Should they consider us spies, we have no hope." Legolas looked on astonished at the wisdom of this boy, who seemed to have grown in prowess even in the few days they had spent together.

"Aye, we shall wait upon the morn," he sighed.

They sat once more, facing away from the faceless wall; the creaking gate. They were hidden by the foothills of the mountains. To Legolas it seemed insurmountable and now he had come thus far he did not see how they should pass this final deadly hurdle. What lay beyond did not yet trouble him, for he saw only the wall in front; the great gate, stiff and wide.

**Knocking at the Gate**

Beneath the black wood of the great gate the silence was awful. Arun longed to scream out; not for aid but for the sake of sound. It would serve to lessen the dread of this place. To him the dread of unknown, what was hidden seemed worse than the threat of the land itself. With his young years he could not imagine what might lie beyond the gate that seemed to have been summoning him. One way or another, his journey would end there.

Zimran reached through the silence, and, as he had been delegated to do hammered on the gate before him. It seemed to vibrate through the door and himself. Fear was rekindled, burning stronger even than on his mercenary missions. Now he was illegal, subversive, in company against the Dark Lord. One did not question the authority of the Dark Lord. Who knew how far his power might stretch?

Legolas beheld the knock upon the door with a singular dread. Not knowing what was beyond it seemed easier to believe that Estel might be alive. Now he was to see beyond the curtain he feared more what he was to find. He seemed to stand on the brink of a cliff but a mist had blocked his view.

The knock was loud and terrible. They shuddered in the thin air to hear and dust flew.

Nothing seemed to happen. They heard nothing more.

Arun turned his head toward the elf in the uncertain silence that once more flooded the area. He opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted by the ugliest voice his short life had ever heard.

**Can you hear me calling you?**

It seemed not a voice at all but like the sawdust tone of a snake.

"Who dares to face the gate of the dread land of Mordor? The voice seemed to cackle in delight. It mocked those foolish enough to demand entry. It found the fear of those that cowered at the door merely amusing.

Even the piercing eyes of the elf could not burst through thick wood and metal to discover the body of this voice. It seemed as though it floated around them in the air. Peering upward there seemed nothing above, and then, creeping slowly over the parapet of the gate appeared faces, beaming in Orcish delight. Small eyes squinted at the figures so far below and distorted faces were filled with curiosity.

Zimran, reacting to the threat of Arun's dagger embedding itself in his back, called back. His voice but a thin whisper, he hoped they would not hear him. He waited, but the ground refused to open and engulf him.

"We are Corsairs of Umbar," quivered the thin voice. Legolas shuddered at the thought; it had come to this, to be counted a corsair.

"We come to meet others of our company and to negotiate terms for the capture of more slaves." Orcish eyes squinted in the blood red sun, eager to get a closer look at these travellers that came in so small a number.

The voice, whose owner they could not see, writhed once more in the air, "To whose company do you belong?"

Legolas panicked, he had no answers. Was his quest to be over before it had barely begun? He had not expected it to be easy to cross into the land, but their luck had held and they had found Zimran. Now he saw the dangers of this man that might lie, or merely hand them over to Orcs given any chance of release. Looking toward the man's eyes he thought he saw the spark of possibility alight within.

His voice quivering, Zimran gave the answer he feared to give. "We are of the company of Zuliman," within his eyes burnt the flame of fear. Sounds of begrudging approval drifted through the grey air toward them. With a terrible regularity they heard the footfalls of trolls, as they began to wind the gate open. Once more he felt upon the brink of some terrible destiny. His body forcing hesitation upon him, feet wishing to be rooted to the ground, he shuddered as he heard the first creak of the great hinges. All three pairs of eyes squinted into their future with trepidation in their minds.

Legolas looked ahead and muttered; "Estel – I come." The words fell silently away into the wind.

**The Man without a name **

The sun had risen and set once more, and not another word had passed between Aragorn and Sador. His captors, unwilling to release him from another day of work; Aragorn found himself forced, unready, into the shock of slavery once more. If anything they were more stringent with him now than before. He found himself cut off from the other slaves, as though his very presence might tip them into rebellion.

But the fire, so hot, that burned within his eyes seemed to have died and his eyes lingered now a little closer to the Earth. Within the lined face there seemed now no chance of that rebellion that but two days hence had spread fear into the hearts of Orcs. He craved the contact that he had lost with the dregs of humanity around him. Even the dim eyes, blackened limbs and crooked backs might have given him hope – but now nothing. They knew…

They knew now what he craved, knew that alone he was nothing – once more the man without a name. There was no Bellas, his strength was gone. Like his life he thought it had slowly been sliced away from him until coming closer it seemed to touch his bear skin. Fear and death were neighbours now – jostling to take him first.

With exhaustion, in the heat of the fire over which he stood his hand strayed too close. It slipped into the dancing flame and he reeled backward in pain. His feet left the ground and his back connected instead. Shocked by the pain, back into the world of feelings, for a moment he sat mesmerised, like a child, by the expanding redness of his skin. Then a shadow raised itself above him. For a moment he thought death had come to release him. It stood, not comforting as he thought, but menacing and deadly. But death did not have a voice he remembered. In the dark recesses that Mordor had emptied, something flickered…. He knew

"So" a voice, like bitter steel, sounded above him as he tried unsuccessfully to heave himself from the floor. "You have not changed since we left you. You still refuse the call of the darkness and the Earth."

Aragorn had thought that they knew him. He thought they saw in his eyes what he feared the most: the blindness and empty ache of a world without memory. He knew, (it was all he knew) that it was this emptiness he feared the most. But this face, large and dark, with the eyes that seemed like a wall – they thought he would fear this more.

Visions flashed through his empty mind – random and dangerous. He saw – green and blue sky. H He saw the eyes the faced him now, upon him before. He remembered the smell; that which threatened to suffocate – a smell he feared. He heard the monotonous tread of boots – footfalls lighter than the orcs. More colours he saw – black, brown, a hint of green. He heard the creaking of hinges of a great door… Peering far, perhaps a hint of grey eyes, golden hair and further still dark eyes and raven…

The face above was riddled with hatred of him; he ought to fear – but death was no burden. This… this was something he could still fight.

But most of all – he remembered…

**End of part XI**


	12. XII

**DRAWING NEAR**

**Where the sun went: **

Zuliman stood above Aragorn, his eyes seething with renewed hatred. Then slowly, as the shadow that grows with the setting sun, the air grew darker around the outline of the man. The ground began to shake beneath them and with it a new fear crept into the hearts of those who stood waiting. There was a tension in the air they had not felt before and they hurried to remove themselves from shadow and fear.

It hurt, but lifting his head Aragorn looked again, and saw. Grey skin seemed but inches above. Stretched across masses of muscle and bone it was thick and ugly, monotonous in colour and shadow. Legs were wide, blocking the vision, they too were massive and grey. For those that stood beneath it seemed as though night had spread, although the midday sun beyond was still strong. m

They were trolls Aragorn's still blurry mind told him. They could be dim, but deadly in their cruelty and sheer size. More lethal than the orcs, they might crush with a foot. Aragorn shuddered in the shadow, but would not allow the telling signs of dread to wash across his face. He would not show this man that held him in such contempt that he might hold fear over him.

Sador looked into the grey expanse of these newcomers and unlike Aragorn allowed the flood of his terror to infiltrate his face. His features contorted and he could barely keep hold of the axe in his hand, so much it shook. He, as most of the captives, had never before had reason to view a troll. To them they appeared fearful indeed. Hurriedly he moved his eyes back to the wall in front, and the slow sold movement of the axe. He did not wish to be singled out.

Zuliman's eyes, flitting from his prey for a moment, enjoyed the murmur of terror that spread across the faces of the captives. It was his favourite sound. In satisfaction he returned his eyes to the man on the earth beneath him, finding the eyes, clear and grey, like clouds reflected in water, returning his own steadfast gaze. In a moment he thought he saw a faint signal of recognition and deep thought flicker through the deep eyes. He strived to seem through them, but his vision was blocked by renewed hatred of the man. What must he do to break him?

Instantly the look was gone and blankness wrote itself once more across the man's face. Zuliman thought how curious the look had been. He was baffled and could not read it.

There had been silence for too long. The other captives were now openly cowering in the shadow of the mountainous trolls. Orcs appeared from the side lines, broad black whips were in there hands and they clicked them faintly. Thirty faces turned at once back to work.

Beneath his thick black cloth Zuliman grinned at their fear. Even as his eyes wandered his foot hit Aragorn's ribs hard and he fell forward. Nuth was behind him, feeding hatred.

"Back to work," his voice threatened, but Aragorn heard little, "or you'll pay tonight."

The whip came down upon his back, the crack ripped the air, then the skin. Aragorn moved slowly away, defiant in his speed. He knew what they threatened and he did not care. His head was full of heaving images, each fighting for precedence, which would win? Harder it struck and he lunged forward, fighting the air for a softer landing, but the eyes were there, bright and real, raven and grey, watching him… and as he fell forward again he reached out to them.

"Come and find me" he whispered.

**So cold**

Valar the cold of this place was unbearable! The distant sun, grinned in its chill, throwing down empty rays on the barren land. The elf had never been so frozen through, the cold stuck under his skin and to his bones. It was a chill, he began to think, that might never leave him. Already he felt scarred by the unnatural senses he gained from the place. He would not live long here; his heart might freeze. If he stood a moment in quiet, he thought, he could hear the slowing of his blood within his arteries, perhaps his heart slowed too. What was he without blood? Did this signal the beginnings of the end of humanity? Was this what gave humans their weakness – the bitterness of the senses? From here how far was there to fall?

Aragorn was beyond that he had always thought. His body was strong, his mind supple but stubborn, bent on right. Again the questions of survival jostled in Legolas' head. He felt he understood the pull on humanity, how much stronger the calls of evil must be for a being that felt so much. He was vulnerable. Here there were no rocks to defend him. In battle the elements would desert him, and, that much weaker, he would, no doubt fall too.

It had barely been twenty four hours since he had followed the creak of the black gate and peered in terror as it closed with them on the far side; the wrong side.

Arun's bright, bird orange eyes watched at every turn in the road, sweeping the empty dust plains on either side for orcs or worse. He could see rocks and in the distance a great tower black like a rotten finger against the fire of the sky. Unlike the elf his temperature fluctuated – this was hell he thought – I will burn from all angles. He wished to be free of the binding cloth around his face, that too suffocated him, as though the evil was closing in.

Their march had not ceased since the gate had closed behind them, eager to move away from the suspicion of orcish eyes. Without warning Arun came to an abrupt stop, turning on Zimran and pulling on the rope that bound his wrists so hard that he fell forward a little in the road. Zimran's moan echoed among the rocks intensifying the loneliness of the landscape.

'Where are we?' demanded the boy turning on the fallen man. His voice was loud and clear as if to dispel the demons of their journey with some clarity of mind. 'I can see nothing ahead, only grey stone. You said you knew where we were!' His eyes seemed to bore through the cloth around Zimran's mouth demanding answers of the silence. The voice was saturated with impatience, desperation and fear. The fear that comes from walking under the shadow of a nameless fear; unidentifiable, unbeatable.

He drawled, feigning calm. 'If you were not prepared for the journey, you should not have volunteered. The Road to Mordor is long and fraught with danger. If you are quick to anger, we shall soon die.' Then breathing a little deeper he set the bait, 'we could turn now, I still have some standing, we could leave this dead land and never return. The gate is still in reach.'

Arun struck out in fury, and his blows filled the air with their echoes. His knives were once again dangerously close to Zimran's neck and his worried eyes expressed his dread at the words he had spoken.

Panting he added, 'I meant that you are young. This is not a place for innocent blood to be lost. But if we are to continue there are many miles still to traverse' The eyes became a little colder. 'You will not find them without me.'

Legolas turned, it seemed as if he tried to smile sadly, but the muscles of his jaw were frozen and he barely managed the words. 'You speak poison my friend.' He spoke resignedly, bitterly like a man who has come to the end of his world, but does not like what he sees beyond. 'But you are our prisoner nonetheless and therefore bound beyond liking or reason until such time as we should let you go. We have saved your life, whether you should will it or not you are in our debt.' Having spoken he winced and then moved his eyes back to the horizon.

Arun began to threaten the man once more. But Legolas, eyes ever furtive, peered into the empty distance. Far into the reach of his vision, beyond the sight of man, he thought he saw a cloud. It seemed like a cloud of flies growing closer. As he grew accustomed to it, the faint patch of grey turned to recognition of dust. 'Yrch' he cried, forgetting in his haste the tongue of men.

'**Yrch'**

Legolas frozen heart began to pump his blood once more. It ran to his fingers and they tingled with fear. He jumped from the new life in his numb joints. Shaking visibly, his feet would not obey the call of his mind and he was barely able to stutter his warning. Arun turned from his anger and looked quizzically for a moment, barely comprehending what the elf had said. He looked into the distance but he did not see. Then like Legolas before him he noticed the flicker of dust in the air and panic rose in his lungs. It seemed that already they were filled with dust.

Zimran's careful fear turned to terror in his eyes and he pulled tighter on the ropes of his captors in a motion to run. In retaliation and fright Arun pulled harder on the ropes.

'I told you we must run,' Zimran shrieked at them in panic; at the fearful boy and the resigned elf. 'So eager to come… but boys and elves, do not think of consequences. No.' He seemed almost to cackle in his paroxysm of terror, 'But they insisted they must come. But none shall fight the orcs of Mordor should they choose to take us. They are deadly indeed.'

Legolas looked in desperation for somewhere to hide them, while Zimran's teeth continued to chatter. In his field of vision he saw; closer now and more deadly the tread of orcish feet; the low rise of rocks at the wayside; and the empty lands, flat and vacant that once might have held grass. Those days were in far memory indeed now and none but the eldest of the Earth might have seen those days – before the world was changed.

'So' the voice was dreaded and like the drop of a stone in silent water. In the vacancy afforded by thought the orcs had advanced further than they had foreseen. 'Three corsairs, all alone.' The thin deep growl taunted them for being off guard. 'And one bound I see. Treacherous the lot of you.' The eyes were amber and gleamed in menace. Legolas turned his head slightly to look away from the hungry eyes. 'Quiet aren't you' continued the slither of the orc's voice. 'What are you doing here without prisoners. Trespassing I think. Don't belong to any group I recognise.' The cruel, fanged, lipless mouth slid into a humourless grin.

Arun shuddered in the shadow of that grin. He felt vulnerable and without power. Impatient by nature he felt desperate to move, to use his dagger – but a sharp glare from the elf dissuaded him. He tried to deaden his eyes, but the furtive, fearful motions refused to be dispelled so easily.

'We are of the company of Zuliman,' the corsair repeated like a mantra. His voice a monotone which reflected no emotion, no fear – he had met the orcs of Mordor before.

The face of the foremost orc sneered slightly and he turned to the others of his group as if to give a meaningful look. Legolas glanced at his face, noting a faint glint of mocking and wondered what might be planned for them.

At last the words of the orc broke the silence once more; the dreaded silence filled with waiting, desire and desperation. 'In that case, you'd best come with us.' He grinned and his fangs dented the empty smile. 'We've been having some trouble with one of your lot. Seems they can't control him; if you know what I mean?' He repeated the meaningful look.

Minutes later Legolas found himself trudging, feet heavy and cold, after the doom of orc drums. Zimran was free, but he stuck close to the side of the man; ready at the first betrayal. Arun too never allowed his eyes to leave the back of the corsair – it gave him something on which to focus instead of the incessant tread of fear. They were coming closer; he could sense it. On the brink of his destiny he thought; there was no one left to fight.

**Closer**

He screamed.

He had no choice.

Blood spattered on the ground and he could not tell whether it came from his nose or his mouth. He loathed himself for weakness, for the betrayal of his senses.

Zuliman looked over the stained man beneath him and smiled, revelling in the sound of weakness so distasteful to his own mind, so pleasing in a slave. He nodded at the orcs around him, signalling the release of the man's bound hands.

The man lay, barely moving, eyes flickering in a painful spasm. Zuliman stood above him. Big and fierce as a troll now he seemed to the man beneath him, His eyes were full of mocking and fierce delight. He moved his foot until it pressed slightly on the blue and red chest of the man and leaned in closer in order to aim his threat.

'Only a fool admits his weakness.' His voice was quiet and muffled through the cloth but the man imagined the sharp white teeth which longed to bite. It was threatening too; thin and purposeful. 'That will teach you to make the work harder for others.' If his mouth had not been covered the cowering man was sure he would have spat.

It was with bitterness and a frantic fight for energy that he had finally fallen. Since the Corsairs had arrived life had become more unrelenting. Work ceased later and began earlier. Even the dust in the air, that burned the lungs, appeared to have increased. In the end he could not fight it but fell forward and his axe had fallen, knocking a tray of molten metal. The noise had been shattering.

Now, like caught prey he lay on the filthy ground. He did not gaze around him, but felt the eyes of the others burning into his flesh, behind their sheen of work. Their eyes would be fearful, mindful of their tasks, fascinated and terrified of the fall of another. It provided interest if nothing else, a mind numbing moment of intensity, dragged away from the monotony of rock and pick of the axe.

He had not yet looked over, and the man feared the reaction. He had been further away, digging deep into the farther rock. But now he was walking back.

The other man stumbled back across the great gash in the earth; before his eyes seemed to swim a puddle of red and blue. It took him a moment to realise that it was a body. Another moment to recognise that body through the mess of hair and blood.

'Sador' his cries were desperate. Dropping everything Aragorn fled to the prostrate body of his friend.

**End of part XII**


	13. XIII

**Chapter XIII**

**OVER THE KNIFE EDGE**

**Voice of the Valar**

He was in their grip now and angry. Like an animal enraged, fear had left him. He writhed in their arms and it seemed to those who once more stared open mouthed that his limbs might be torn from his body in anger.

'Do not touch him' he heard his voice cry, as though he was detached from his own body, looking onward. 'Do not touch him, for I shall not rest until all lie dead. Fear this rage!' his eyes flared with the fire for which they hated him.

With these words it seemed that a new strength flooded up within him. He could feel it within his throat and within his hands. It tied his being together when his limbs could not. It allowed his voice to rage while his throat was dry as dust and hurt. Swooping low he forced himself free from their grip and felt his collar bone tear once more from its healing position.

He ignored the pain and leapt, in the second afforded by their surprise, to the side of his friend. In seconds his hands were covered in the blood of his friend and then, to his surprise, his own.

His arms were twisted from his friend's body and dragged behind him; his body had no choice but to follow. It followed too when his knees felt the hard leather grip of boots and were knocked from beneath it. With his arms so twisted he could not reach out to stop the fall. His cheek split as it connected with a shard of rock like thin glass, and blood, sickeningly warm clotted in the corner of his mouth. He hated the taste of his blood. It reminded him of weakness.

He felt sick. There was a boot in his stomach, or perhaps it was outside. It felt as though it was within. His body cried to wrap his arm, protectively, around his stomach but he could not. There was pressure, squashing his inside out.

'I warn you, kill me now.' His voice writhed, although his body could not. They had not silenced him yet. Feverishly his voice seemed to fill the void of Mordor and he wondered through his pain if Sauron himself might not hear his cries in the dark. 'If you do not I will escape again, and again and kill you one by one for what you have done. You can break me again… and again but I will never allow you to treat another man thus.'

He did not prepare the words; they seemed to have come from another time. They were the words he had buried inside him since they had carried him beyond the gate, until, no longer able to be contained, they washed out of him. To the other prisoners his words seemed like the song of Illuvatar, although none had heard that great song.

Zuliman leaned down until his nose almost touched that of the ranger; so close he could smell the blood that painted his face. War paint he thought. He sneered in distaste – at being so close to the blood of another. He did not touch the blood of his prisoners; that was to taint himself with their dirt. The man's face was dark with dust that he seemed he might not be clean, but his eyes were clear and grey, betraying the depth of his thoughts.

'So,' and behind his blank mask his sneer grew. Aragorn could hear the expression on his face caught in the corsair's voice. He whispered to intensify the threat; voice smooth like dark silk was so quiet it could have been but a breath of wind. It was for the ears of no others. 'I have at last found your weakness.'

Then, pointing at the fallen Sador he beckoned. 'Bring him,' he motioned.

**Following in your footsteps**

He felt sick. He hated the smell of their rotting, misshapen flesh; hated the thought of their fall to this. That it might have been possible for him to become like them. He hated that he must follow them, trudging, willingly to his death. He was near breathless with hate, it tried to engulf him, until there would be nothing left within his shrivelled soul, shrinking like rotten apple skin. That was what Mordor did to him. What space would be left, he wondered, for love, when he reached Estel?

Legolas' skin was already tinged grey from dust like all creatures that had to survive in Mordor. He seemed to have forgotten all around him, even Arun, the boy who had followed him so far. His hatred was the focus of all energy and he looked on nothing but the tread of his own feet, so light they did not create patterns in the dust. He could be lost here and none would know he thought bitterly, not even his footprints would give him away.

When night fell, they camped around the small fire Zimran had started. The orcs were not interested in the fire of men, for they felt no cold.

Legolas looked into the flames, as though searching for an answer. The flames were cold and offered no comfort. He thought he would watch and when the orcs slept he might kill them. But they were too many, and it was not worth the risk. Lifting his eyes for a moment he noticed that the boy had withdrawn into himself too. He did not look at their orcish guides, or at Zimran, who now roamed free. It had seemed to suspicious to keep him bound.

Morning came early, grey and cold. The orcs were sluggish, preferring to move at night, they had stopped for their human guests. A glint had been in their eyes as they noted weakness.

Legolas discovered an urgency he had not felt before rise within the very bones of his body. He knew instinctively that whatever happened, this would be the day that they found him. They had walked so many days, he had journeyed so many days in these lands of shadow, where elves no longer trod. But today they would go beyond the brink. His heart leapt at the thought of Estel. He had not been told, but instinctively he seemed to know that this was the trail that led to his friend.

Legolas' keen eyes delved into the distant mist of early morning.

**Barely breathing**

He could not speak, could barely breathe. Thick hands with coarse skin that irritated his own were clamped across his mouth. He screamed until his throat seemed to bleed within him, but no sound could be heard. He existed in a vacuum of pain. Fighting for breath they dragged him. When he refused to walk they dragged him by his knees. The skin became thin and raw and then ripped until he felt as though his bones themselves were being heaved across uneven ground. He fought to reach forward, to lunge from their arms, but their grip was now like iron rings.

A hard shove came from behind him and he found himself face to face with the grey dust. It flew up his nose and crammed between the fingers that silenced him. It spat into his eyes, which could not remain closed. It tasted sour.

Grey knuckles dug into his arms, forcing him onto his back. More hands – sawdust dry, as though separate from bodies came and clamped his face between them. Fresh blood ran where the nails bit into his skin. A new piece of cloth, saturated with the choking dust was shoved between his teeth. It was wide and he could not close his teeth around it. His jaw ached to cry out, or for teeth to feel one another. His lips were fixed in a silent scream.

His legs were bound. All the time he could hear scuffling surrounding him in every direction; muffled whimpers of another man's pain. He tried to twist his neck, tried to capture the scene around him – but the hands held him like a vice. He hoped his neck might break with the strain.

Lifting him they hauled him backward, still on his knees. Strong ropes, and wide were pulled around his waist and his arms were dragged further behind him as they bound him to a rock. The ropes were tight. They constricted his lungs until he thought he could not release the air trapped within. Then he waited, lips frantically trying to voice sounds and struggling against the bonds. They pressed on his lungs and his breath came hissing from around the edges of the gag.

Then he saw the cause of the scuffling sounds and his eyes widened with horror. The lids were the only part of his body; his surroundings, that he could still control. If all he could do was watch then he would watch.

Before him – barely able to stand and blindfolded stood Sador. No, he did not stand but faltered and seemed as though he should collapse. His hands reached for something he could not find and there was fear in the jerked movements of his bleeding limbs. 'Bellas' he cried and tears flowed like the blood from his back down his face, carving the dust. 'Where are you? Bellas….'

The cries broke the ranger's heart and he struggled more fiercely against the ropes hissed against his skin. The ropes burned a map of his terror across the skin of his chest.

Zuliman leant into him; 'Time we play a little game with your friend'. His eyes grinned with delight like the embers of a cold fire that refuses to warm.

**Hide and seek**

Zuliman clapped his hands softly and four orcs appeared bearing whips. 'Tickle him,' the corsair ordered. His eyes were black, and grinned like a blank wall.

Aragorn shuddered at the thought of what this might mean. His heart beat desperately within his chest and seemed as if it would explode from his ears. He was helpless – more so he thought than he had ever been. The pain of powerlessness bit in his chest and crushed his lungs. He thought he might suffocate – it might be over.

Silence – it jarred the air as all stood expectantly, waiting for their own movements or those of another. In those moments Aragorn questioned his being. He felt as though no longer a man, but an animal, small, scared and bleeding. He had no control, but the passion of despair burned within him. He was like a flame on the point of being snuffed. For the first time he was without hope…

His name… he knew his name. Hope! It invaded his mind like the scent of something long dead, found lurking in deep, dark corners. Wherefore should it come to him now? It branded him with an action he could not offer and for that he loathed, pushed it away out of his mind longing to be nameless.

Suddenly! A movement and a cry blurred across his vision. Jaws forced agape, he tried to shut his eyes against the scene forced upon him, but they were forced open and he lost the last of the control he had owned.

The end of a whip lightly tapped Sador's shoulder. He stumbled forward trying to gain his balance and seek out the taunting implement that he felt but could not place. Then again from another angle – another tap – so light it drew only the thinnest of red scars. Sador turned again, looping hands ahead, shaking as though searching for anything to hold on to. He was lost in the air and fearful. With each fumbling step another piece of the ranger's sanity and will to live slid from him – noiselessly to the ground.

Sador continued weaving through the empty air and countless waves attacked him from all angles. Aragorn remember the feeling, as though time and space had fallen away – all that was left a void of pain. Even the earth beneath the feet became unsteady. Lost so lost, until unconsciousness like a salve came to carry the body from pain and you fell into darkness. With no other choice the ranger lived the experience with the blinded man; felt every tear of the skin and joined the chorus of each cry.

At last the pain gave in and allowed Sador to fall to the earth, weary legs dropped from under in him and dust danced around him like a protective cloud. The torment for now was over.

Zuliman's voice slid into the ranger's ear, 'So…' He was defiant, slippery, like one who flaunts power. It was as though he could feel the ranger's shattered soul between his fingers, turning it over like coins. 'Will you see him suffer more? I can do it you know – push him to the edge and keep him there.' Then closer '…you of all know what a man can live through.' He spat into the ranger's eye and it stung. Aragorn, twisted with grief, felt nothing.

**How did I become so numb?**

When they released his hands and knees he simply fell to the floor. It was as though his spine no longer held his body but had fallen away in grief and he could not move. He tried to close his eyes but they would not move now – but stared out glazed in horror. He remembered and yet his mind was frozen. One picture invaded all his thoughts – the man who had given him reason to live now lay feet from him and it had been his own doing.

For a moment those surrounding him simply stood – transfixed the paralysed man whose body simply refused now to move. This, it seemed was what it meant to be truly broken with grief. The grey eyes seemed finally dull and emptied.

Zuliman was impatient. He understood the ranger's paralysis to be of choice – felt that the man still defied him. He should be docile now. Free to mould into the clone of a slave, like the dozens of others he had captured – eyes lowered and empty, no hint of a world beyond the pain of living. They eyes were dull and empty – but he did not believe.

'Get up' Zuliman demanded of the air. Aragorn did not hear the instruction, but his body shook with the tension that grew around him. He shook as though caught in the depths of a fever.

'Get him up.' Zuliman demanded again. This time the orcs moved toward the man.

Nuth kicked him in the stomach, he flinched slightly, but no other reaction showed on the man's face. He shook as before like a frail leaf in the wind. Grabbing his arms they roughly dragged him from the ground. It was difficult. His legs refused to stand but trembled beneath him, and would not hold his weight. Even with their strong arms they could barely hold him.

'Nuth was angry now. The man was clearly unable to stand.

'He's no good now,' the orc snarled loudly showing off the dark fangs within his mouth. His eyes were thin and threatening. 'He would have worked, but now you've gone and destroyed him.' Resentment poured from his mouth, 'look at him, like a baby – can't even stand.' He demonstrated by releasing Aragorn's left arm, which immediately drooped limply toward the ground.

This rekindled the fury inside Zuliman. These filthy orcs should never tell him how to treat his prisoners. Didn't he bring them fresh bait? Good for nothing dirty creatures, all they were good for was inspiring fear in the prisoners. But in the case of this man? They had failed and not he.

Zuliman came slowly toward the man who shook, taking each step like a careful thought.. Aragorn could not focus – even his eyes seemed to shake with the grief that tore him apart, piece by piece. He felt not as a person but as floating limbs, searching for rest. In front of him, he saw the tortured eyes of his friend and then a void. It was blacker and emptier than Mordor himself. There was nothing, he knew it now. Beyond here… there was no hope of another life. No Valar – nothing.

But there was something. The smell… the smell he feared. Like his hope it smelled like the dead. It smelled like the void before him. It was something he feared more than the loss of humanity itself. It was the loss of memory. He remembered the emptiness, the painful sleep of dark dreams.

He seemed possessed once more and writhed, snake like too, in the strong arms of the orcs. Blurred vision was better than no vision. He had none of the grace of a snake though, but trembled more in the recollection. Eyes, seemed as though they might burst as terror drained his body like his own blood.

As Zuliman held the vial over his mouth the man took the last decision he was aware of. He clamped his eyes and his mouth shut. Refusing even to breath, in his head he muttered prayers for death. He prayed faster than the language to voice them. 'Let me die he whispered, please, let me die. His chest thudded and his lungs were crushed. Once more his body betrayed him, enemy that it was. It released the air from his lungs and at the same moment the drug slid noiselessly down his throat. It passed drowning his cries and forcing him gasp for breath. He tried to retch, but it was gone. They forced his lips closed tight.

**Dreams in which I die**

He was without…. He floated in the dust above the scene and for a second he thought he had gone, dancing away in the breezeless air. He saw his body and the silent screams that interfered with his breath and left him choking and grasping for air. Then he was back, he could even feel their nails in his skin. They let go of his arms and he stumbled, trembling still. The drug worked fast. Like a poisoned dart it raced to his heart, rushing with his blood as his body completed its bitterest betrayal. He could not stand but felt his legs give way. He did not know what was behind but felt, even as feeling left him, the moment when his feet left the earth. There was a pit behind him, where they had dug for metal. It way empty, black and cold. He fell… He wanted to fall. For a moment it was exhilarating.

Aragorn felt his bones connect with the ground, and welcomed the crack which seemed to split the screams that came from above. In the clarity that it brought, eyes first time clear, through the vision of his pain, it seemed personified in the shape of Sador and of another that he loved. Beyond the pain and doubt he saw the grey eyes of that other, the fair hair like corn in harvest fields and heard the soft strength of the voice. Beyond that he saw dark hair and something sparkling beyond like the glimmer of stars. In the space behind his eyes, the soft voice spoke to him welcoming him to the place beyond pain, where he would no longer be dragged to movement. Dust spluttered in the air around him, forced from the ground with the bitter crack of his fall.

Then he felt the crushing weight of the troll on his chest and within his chest his ribs cracked like as though he walked on naught but twigs. The there was pain as though his bones had been torn apart, as though they ripped through his skin. His next breath seemed as though it would never come and he was buried in darkness.

**Always a second behind.**

Dust was spiralling in the air. It hid the action, as though the scene were about to be revealed. Momentarily Legolas believed that they had arrived in the middle of a war. His mind reflected the confusion of the scene in front. Orcs were running and men; men who appeared the reflection of themselves, faces covered, humanity denied. Figures darted, blurs to all but the keen elvish eyes of Legolas. Penetrating the dust there appeared to be an argument. There was a prisoner too, thick orcish wrists were clamped around the man's thin ones. Then the figure fell….

Legolas voice tore from his throat and it seemed that it had never spoken before. His feet moved before he had even thought and he charged toward the gathering dust. Now in the face of the truth he had run out of time to think. All he heard was the fall even as it split the very particles of the air itself he heard the fall. It seemed there was nothingness the world was empty and he was inside the body that fell. His stomach jolted as though he was thrown through the air himself and he retched with the dizzying sickness it released. For a moment he stopped, his body fought the movement he needed.

To the sides of his path orcs fell like leaves from an autumn tree, flimsy in the face of such fear; of such fierce love.

When the thud of the ground sounded – doom like orc drums his heart beat alongside. Still he raced as though the activity of his body alone could erase the past. He had felt… hoped that the fall would not end but somehow the ground would be gone. It was not so… In time that ran like all time does the elf reached the edge and peered over into the still air and the dust that began to clear.

End of part XIII


	14. XIV

**PART XIV **

**FAMILIAR FACES, STRANGER'S EYES**

**A traitor's voice**

Aragorn was falling. Reality clashed with Legolas' dreams and he remembered every night that he had seen the man, just beyond his reach. He had thought every moment of the journey of how he might find his friend, but when it came to it he was unprepared. There were no thoughts in his mind as he rushed to the edge from where he had seen the man fall – limp hair fluttering in breeze. His mind seemed numb; bent on the sole purpose of discovery. For a moment it did not matter if he lived or died for he was without of the world; seconds poured past him like grains of rice.

In the theatrical spread of the clearing dust the man appeared thin and changed. But Legolas knew him; knew the pattern of his limbs as he brushed the air; recognised the slight moan as his body made its inevitable contact with the earth. .

The fall, as his own journey, seemed infinitesimal, as though they might be caught in the same moment forever. The man always just out of reach, the elf always chasing; seconds behind. He would chase forever, but what he feared most was that the man would soon go where he could not follow. Such was the fate of men.

They landed together despite the metres that still, after all this time, stood between them. Legolas' chest felt the same crush of the ground beneath, the same searing pain as sharp ribs gnawed at muscle and skin. So intense it was that it seemed he should fall beneath the weight of his shared anguish; his chest seemed shattered in grief and the pressure made it difficult to breathe. His knees shook beneath him, and he desired only to follow where his friend had gone ahead.

The deafening splinter of bones followed the crack of falling, as, out of the dust, stepped a troll, rock grey, and heavy. When he stepped it seemed as though the earth shook and the mountains of Mordor themselves might be moved. Beneath his foot the man seemed as though he would be crushed. Legolas covered his ears, shutting the sound out from his mind, the sound that tore his senses. In shreds he heard only the cries of death and his vision was blocked with the image of the fall and the foot that followed. His elvish hearing betrayed him and it was as though the bones cracked once again within his own chest. He believed that he would not breathe again. So fervent was this impression that the pressure of suffocation within his own chest surprised him, forcing the air from his lungs. Death did not come easily it told.

The troll did not step with his whole weight. Even so the sense of crushing pain was overpowering. The monstrous action of the grey beast was blinding, as though light had been stamped from the world with its step. So large was the creature that it blocked the sun. In his mind's eye Legolas saw the man as he lay; the eyes spread wide open with fear and shock, unable to move as the grey foot loomed toward him. Then he saw the light extinguished, the candle of hope destroyed and the grey eyes opened no more.

Legolas wished for silence and bowed his head in reverence to the overwhelming loss. He thought he might fall too under the oppression of the feeling. He had lost the hope of the world – wherefore now should he hope? Of all the land only he knew how great was the detriment to Middle Earth in the fall of this man.

Yet even in the back of his mind, preoccupied as he was, a voice behind him, newly loud, registered between his thoughts. The voices of the orcs blended with his despair, but this was a new voice; one that he did not associate so with the evils of Middle Earth.

'I swear to you I came alone… to bring more prisoners. These are they that I brought. See here an elf of the north. He is strong, strong even among the realms of men. He is surely worth more than the rest.'

**Fight or Flight**

Zimran spoke and Legolas world began anew – he was in it once more. He did not want to die even in this place, even with no hope. If he were to fade and end his life it should not be in Mordor, not at the hands of the orcs. To die here was never to know rest. Should his last sight of Middle Earth take the form of barren land that pierced the empty red sky and the air that tasted sour like evil?

The voice he heard was cold and empty, as he had always imagined it should be. The elf did not move, but stood for a moment in silent prayer for the struggle that he believed to be his ultimate end. Then, breathing heavily, he turned, his bow strung, awaiting the attack. Peering into the crowd, Zimran was gone. Hatred flickered through the elf's mind where pity no longer remained.

Then there was no time to think for he was surrounded by orcs and fair hair was pouring from under the cloth around his head. They stood confused by the slow unravelling of this person that they knew not. Most had not seen an elf before and did not recognise the fair features. Their minds were filled with hatred of the creature that they might once have been and that was all their minds told. They swarmed from either side closing in on the elf. Fear lit up his grey eyes and hatred too and the heat of a battle not begun. He would fight, he knew, until breath no longer left his body. He fought for the man he had loved.

At his side (he had not seen him before, so lost was he within his own thoughts) stood Arun, resolute in the face of what he believed to be his own death. If such was to be his end he reasoned, he would stand till the end by the elf that had saved him. Better to die by the hand of an orc than to live at their mercy. His sword was outstretched in his hand and his features spoke of manly nobility and pride. Teeth gritted, his cheeks were tense like the sword within his grasp' he was ready.

Between the two races both felt now a bond of comradeship and reliance that Legolas had felt only before with Estel, and he had Elvish blood. Grateful for the strong stand of the Arun he felt his strength and resolve increase. If such a youth, fresh from childhood should stand, tall and cold as Caradhras in the face of such an enemy then he should not fear them. It would an honour to face death beside him.

Pausing only to nod to Arun, the elf and the man leapt into battle alongside one another and awaited the end of time.

**Will I live or die?**

Swords slashed in a terrible rhythm, treacherous and regular. It was two against many. The orcs were plenty, though disorganised and their action inferior. Their faces blurred to one ugly mass before the elf and the man. Several had only one eye and their skin was ugly like a wound. Their scimitars were dripping and ugly, they reminded Arun of Saliva. Crash they sounded and there was no time for thought. Even breath barely found its own space between the heat, sweat or the spit of blood, in battle.

Still they stood though. Orcs fell like sand around them and their blood was black and dense. It stuck to their fingers and stained the elf and the man with the evil of the land. It slowed their fingers and caused their throats to retch. Like ants they came, more of them sticky with the blood of their kind too, as if the stench drew them close.

From the pits the slaves watched once again the new turn of events as their masters fell in the battle of light against the darkness. Black not red blood sank into the Earth now and a new light seemed to filter into the minds of the men. They were not far from despair and yet in that moment even those who had been ready to fall with weariness felt a new spring of strength well within them.

Realising that they were no longer under close scrutiny a cry, beginning with one young boy of Rohan, resounded through the group as they became roused. It was as the waking of a great beast, fierce and terrible. The cry throbbed and became the cry of war, as, taking shovels, or whatever it could lay its hand to, the beast leapt to life and began its march toward the dust of battle. When the downtrodden retaliate the result is fierce indeed. Their eyes were red with passion, their weapons (they held whatever they could) were held aloft in a rhythmic and triumphant dance.

The battlefield of black blood became shot through with fair hair and pale skin, diluting the evil of the scene. It seemed there were many as they flew across the battleground, faces flecked with anger. Their tools clanked as they hit orc scimitars hard or burrowed through tough skin. Many more lay dead now, of orc kind and of man.

Legolas, finding himself all of a sudden with a moment to consider looked with astonishment on the crowds that now came forth, seething with the anger of captivity. The torch of freedom and light now burned within them, and they hoped anew even in that dark place. Taking new heart the elf moved twice as quick as before, until the slice of his blade could scarce be seen as it tore through tough orc skin like silk.

**Lost to the World**

Zuliman knew when the time came to flee. He had built a life of flight. How, he reasoned, was a man to survive if he were bound to such a code of honour? What was the use of noble actions in such an age? He valued life and aimed to enjoy what he could of his own. Perhaps from this belief had been drawn his revulsion at the courage of th man named strength. In his understanding he simply did not comprehend a man who did not act upon selfish motives and was willing not only to suffer his own pain but would suffer on behalf of others. Instead he saw the man like a boulder in the road, a man who had looked through him as so much evil, refusing to have his will broken.

He saw the fall of row upon row of orcs, breaking like waves upon a beach. They would not live to see the end of battle. He saw the rise of the beast that the slaves had become and feared for their retribution, which would be bitter and cruel indeed. The dust in the air separated him from the action and he was not sorry for the curtain drawn between he and they. As always he felt superior to those who fought. He knew when a battle was lost and would not wait to discover how it felt to suffer defeat.

In a moment of desperation he searched the Earth around him for anything that he might salvage to replenish his fortunes. He did not intend to leave alone. Turning backward he saw a hint of brown cloth peering up at him from close to his feet. Then bare feet and skin, tinged grey and dull red, came into view. This was followed by a fumbling motion, as the man, still blinded by cloth, tried to establish his location in the world.

Sador awoke and heard the clash of scimitars and swords but could not see to tell from whence the sound came. He tried to move and found his hands still bound tight and his blood fighting to move. 'Bellas' he called, the first word upon his lips that of his hope. In terror he realised once more that no reply was to come. The air was empty of friendly noise. In panic he feared that the clash of swords signalled the punishment of his friend and he attempted feebly to push himself from the earth.

His breath was cut short as he felt sharp fingernails dig themselves into his shoulder. They were strong and hard and he moaned as his skin dented under the pressure. 'Bell…' he called but could not finish the word before foul tasting fingers clamped themselves around his mouth and he wished to spit them out.

A voice, as foul as the fingers, was in his ear and resonating inside his head.

'Do not move so fast my friend, for I have plans for us beyond this land.'

Dragging Sador from the ground and wincing at the smell of cold blood on his tunic, Zuliman caught hold of the bonds around the man's hands. With no consideration for his broken state or his sluggish, reluctant steps, Zuliman hauled the man behind him and without looking behind him. Both disappeared into the distance as the battle reached its climax.

**False Dawn**

The dust began to clear. Suddenly Legolas could see. There was a light growing in the spaces between the orcs. The onslaught of new bodies had stopped and the dozen that were left seemed to flee before his eyes. Like insects they crawled away, trailing their sticky blood behind them, searching for the deep places of the Earth. Raising his eyes to the heavens a moment he thanked Elbereth for deliverance as his field of vision opened up further as though grey clouds had parted. The fighting died down and the men gradually turned from the sword to a search for their sick and dead.

Immediately his thoughts returned to Estel who lay below, untouched by the battle that had been fought and won for him above. Perhaps he had already gone. Panic at this thought sliced through Legolas. The fear of battle and the wish for self-preservation had temporarily emptied his mind of Estel's condition. He did not wish to turn, fearing he might swoon at the renewed sight of the ruined body of his friend. His head hurt and the crushing weight of evil filtered through his breath and seeped into his body and mind, sinking him into despair. He did not feel the dribble of blood that trickled slowly across his forehead. Once more he forgot himself.

Arun stood, an island surrounded by a sea of orc bodies. He turned to view the dread sight of the elf, his head bent, despairing, walking to the edge of a gaping hole. Perhaps he should leave the elf to mourn his dead. Turning his back he craved the sun. The sky was grey and sombre as though it too mourned the passing of so many. Men moved in clumps trying to discover whether their comrades yet walked upon the Earth.

The calm was surreal and to Arun it felt wrong. Something was amiss. Mordor never stood so still or in such harmony.

His answer was quick and devastating. He heard a footfall behind himself and in a moment grey hands, rough and thick looped their way around his mouth, cutting off his breath. He struggled against them but found that such action was futile, the hands only

Legolas, too preoccupied did not hear the sound of Arun's capture. He was in a land beyond Mordor, trying to search the realms of the dead for his friend; dreading that he would find him there, hoping that he would not. When the hands clamped themselves around his wrists and around his mouth it was completely unexpected. The shock jolted through him as though he stood at the epicentre of an earthquake so sudden it was. It knocked the breath from him and he fought for another, so firmly did they hand take hold. Falling vividly back to earth his thin frame seemed in danger of being entirely crushed by such a weight as was behind him.

At once alert he struggled, thrashing in their tight grip. He was strong beyond human strength and was causing his captors some trouble. Wrenching his head up, he noted that there was another orc ahead. This one had wide eyes, black and deep they reminded the elf of the pit in which his friend lay. Nuth's grim teeth were bared in a wide, threatening grin. They were black as his blood.

'Ahh..' his voice was full of satisfaction and whatever delight an orc might feel.

'What a pretty toy for my boys to play with.'

A ball of spittle rolled from his mouth as he thirsted for the destruction of so valuable a captive. Legolas, unable to speak, gazed in horror as the thin drip charted its journey across the sharp chin. The endless wait as it noiselessly hit the ground. He is salivating for my blood, he thought.

**Final Mercy**

He braced himself for the end. He truly believed that he should follow his friend to the abyss. The hands pressed life from his body; perhaps, he thought, my ribs will snap beneath the pressure. Suffocation seemed a mercy rather than prolonged exposure to the menace of the orcs. They would not allow death without a struggle.

It did not come.

He did not hear the struggle behind him for his mind has been too full of the enormity of a life about to be extinguished. But he felt the release of the fingers that had held him tight. He noted the slow flow of his blood as it slid once more into his fingers.

Turning he saw Zimran on his knees. The hilt of an orcish dagger protruded from his chest and warm blood slid noiselessly from his tunic. The elf found himself once more unable to move. The shock was to new, too original. He had believed the man utterly lost, had learned not to pity. But he had not expected this sacrifice from one so cruel. His world once more seemed lopsided; reality a distant uncertainty.

Arun, released too, waded through the waves of the dead, knelt at the side of the man who had betrayed them and wept. He wept for the betrayal that had been. He wept for the waste of the good soul that might have been.

No orcs now remained alive he was sure of that. Reaching out he took the end of the cloth that had bound Zimran's face in his hand and drew it back revealing a mouth, grim, but now unlined by the malice it had worn so long. A finger of blood dribbled from the corner

Arun was about to reach out and close the man's eyes when the lips, now blue, quivered with breath. In surprise he stumbled backward. Legolas moved forward to view the man.

Seeing the eyes ajar slightly and the shiver of a last breath, the elf spoke.

'Why?' he asked, 'after all, did you return? It was great folly my friend.'

'I remembered mercy.' Zimran turned his eyes toward the elf and whispered the words before breaking into another spluttered breath.

Eyes tortured, pain evident, he turned to Arun.

'Please' he rasped. Arun looked questioningly at the elf? He had no idea what the man should be asking for. All along he had suspected the man, who had in turn betrayed them. Now he had saved them Arun knew not how to react.'

'You cannot ask it of so young a warrior,' he claimed. 'Yet you have given mercy to us even so, thus I shall now give it to you. Leaning forward gently he removed the orcish dagger from the man's side allowing the blood of his death to flow. Then, turning, he walked once more toward the edge of the hole and began to climb in.

**A stranger's eyes**

Reaching the bottom of the pit he looked upon his friend, and he felt the sting of salt tears upon the torn skin of his face. Like rain they would not stop. In that dreadful moment, the one which he had played so many times in his head, life seemed to have forsaken the place.

The man's limbs lay strewn at odd angles. Skin flayed open like the petals of a rose; feet, swollen and broken. Within the man's chest Legolas could feel the fragments of his bone, that were no longer connected. His skin was thin and grey and he seemed old before his time. His chest was scarred as the bark of a tree. His body was surrounded by the dank smell of the drug that had been poured down his throat and Legolas thought he might vomit at the reek of it. A black line of the stuff was painted down Estel's chin and dripped across his chest, mapping the extent of his destruction.

In the awful sound of his sorrow Legolas did not hear the shuddering breath that squeezed itself reluctantly between the lips of Estel. He did not hear that breath, but he heard the next. Within seconds he was by the side of his friend.

Finally, in his arms, Legolas held his friend, as though through the strength of his grasp alone he could avert the fall into darkness. Binding them tight around Aragorn's chest he whispered, using the high tongue, "I will not allow you to die alone."

A last ebb of life seemed to flow through Aragorn and his eyes opened momentarily but what followed broke Legolas heart more thoroughly than the loss of his friend could ever have done.

'I am here Estel,' he whispered, 'It is I, Legolas, I have come to take you home now.' The eyes wandered but did not focus. Instead they were wide with fear and sorrow. They flinched at the sight of the elf above and with the fear the man's body began to convulse and through his rasped breath he tried to cry out in agony.

Estel did not know him. The recognition tore through Legolas as though he had been split by an orcish scimitar. It was as though a part of him died there with his friend. His struggle had been in vain for Estel did not know him, worse he feared the sight of him. Hugging the man closer he prayed for the eyes to close once more and relieve him from the painful sight.

Finally, they did. The breaths became shallower and it seemed as though the life would ebb away.

Countless grief 

Arun was silent in the steps he took toward the grieving else. He did not wish to break the reverent silence, which seemed surround the scene now. It was almost magical in its solemnity and he did not want to break the spell that held them so bound. So still they were he thought for an instant that both had died.

Then the silence was broken by the gentle rattle of the man's breath as it fought to surface and the sob, so angry, of the elf's grief.

Arun sidled up next to Legolas and knelt gently down at the side of the weeping elf and outstretched his arm until the tips of his fingers touched those of his friend. The elf appeared pale and frightened. His golden hair was flecked with dust like stars and his cheeks shone even in the bleak mist of sand. His eyes seemed heavy, so much so that it seemed a burden to open them and the grey iris beneath so blurred that the colour was hidden. As Arun approached he did not even raised his head, but sat still as a sleeping bird. The only sound he registered was the gentle trickle of his own tears, as they sunk into the dust as his feet, running past him and disappearing as the seconds through which he sat. Their passing unnerved him as he realised how quick life changed and so much might disappear, lost in evil. Arun did not speak at once for no words were necessary and partaking in the dreadful display grief before him he wept a moment too.

Looking into the man's face a moment, the man that he had travelled so long to save, he tried to imagine how it must once have appeared. Even now, thin and wasted and flowing warm with his own blood he could see the lines of nobility and courage etched into the worn skin. The face was grim and yet beyond the rough aspect of the ranger Arun could see that there had been so much more to this man. There was kindness, compassion and love and in his air altogether he held a certain presence, which caught the imagination of all who met him. He had been built for a nobler life than this. In that second he too, although he did not know the man, was overwhelmed with the sense of loss for the Earth at this man's passing. It was almost too great to comprehend what his death might mean.

Finally breaking the wordless void, he spoke softly and in awe.

'Who was this man, that his passing brings such grief to the Earth? I feel it around me in every particle, even the air mourns his passing.'

Legolas sighed but did not look up.

Arun was not deterred and whispered.

'How long have you known him?'

This time the elf seemed to awake from his reverie and considered the question. His thoughts were slow and it seemed that he looked across his entire life in that moment. Exerting himself finally, he answered.

'I have known him for nigh fifty years. Nothing in the reckoning of an elf, who does not count the passing of the days.' He mused, as though his answer were to no particular person. 'And yet since I have known him I have counted the days, for it as though I had never lived and not known him. To live now without him by my side I cannot now imagine for he has become a brother to me like no other before.'

Arun heard only as far as fifty, but his mouth lay wide open in astonishment. He could barely comprehend what he had heard.

'But surely…' he found the power of speech at last. 'Surely this man cannot be over fifty years old, for though his face tells the tales of many years in aspect he is young and the years do not tell upon him as upon other men.'

Legolas did not answer but returned his gaze to the body of his friend, forcing his own strength into the cold limbs. Arun began to speak in awe.

'But then he must be…'

'Hush' Legolas' head jerked upward at sound of so dreadful and secret a statement. 'for we still lie deep in the land of the enemy. It would not do to have him know who lay in his midst, though he lies at the very gate of Mandos halls. It is enough to know that he is my brother and that middle Earth should be a sadder place without his presence.' This exertion over he returned his gaze to the body of his friend and would not be further distracted.

In the cold peace of the battle worn ground he began gently to sing in the High tongue as he forgot once more his surroundings and strove to provide for his friend the only comfort he knew how to give. He sang to Elbereth.

END OF PART XIV 


	15. XV

**PART XV**

**In Mordor where the Shadows are**

Feeling his presence, at present, unnecessary, if not unwelcome, Arun rose from the ground and stood a few feet back from the weeping elf. Turning his head away, as if to afford them a moment in privacy he began to survey the scene around them.

In the heat of the day the land became scorched. Already he was ready to retch at the nauseous odour of rotting and burning orc flesh. He had never before in his life been surrounded by so dense and putrid a smell. It wove through his nostrils and around his brain until it seemed he had become one with it. It was as though he had walked into his own nightmare. In every direction his path was strewn with the dark lifeless stains of orc carcasses. To him all appeared alike, no distinguishing features that he could cling to and pity. Intermittently he viewed the more hopeful figure of men, perhaps of Gondor, (he did not know) attending their sick and was reminded, despite the smell, that Mordor did not yet own all. Even here at the epicentre of the evil, good men still lived and fought for right. It gave him hope that was as welcome as each new breath.

Still, his heart was heavy as he realised that he and his brother might easily have become these men; broken to the point of desperation; perhaps gone beyond the point of no return. Some had not fought but merely stood to the side, staring in a wide-eyed stupor. Now they stood still, as if freedom had no meaning. Without their masters they were nothing. Perhaps they would die now there was no purpose; what was left if even slavery was no more. One who had fought looked up from the young boy he was tending and motioned him to approach. Arun was surprised from his reverie and headed toward him.

When he reached them the man bowed his head and sank at the knees of the youth. Arun stood in embarrassment at such a show and did not know where to look. He felt a tugging at his tunic his attention was once more drawn to the man at his feet.

'You have come to deliver us' the voice was weary but grateful beyond the point of joy. The voice resounded with praise and worship that Arun felt he could not deserve; after all he had not fought alone. In embarrassed silence Arun shuffled his feet against the hot, unforgiving dust until it swirled around him into the air. Some found its way into his mouth and he coughed noisily.

'How can we ever repay such bravery? Many were sore close to death and all believed that rescue was impossible. You have brought a miracle to the land of Mordor. Were you sent by the Valar?' The man, his lined face like veins of rock fixed with awe, looked upon the youth that stood above him as though he had just stepped from Valinor. This was too much for Arun and he knelt down beside the man in an attempt to remove some of their distance.

Arun's embarrassment became more acute and he wished he had not approached. He moved his eyes across the tiny collections of people attending their own. All seemed coated with a greyish hue. Most were bent over as though they had borne the burden of a lifetime's toil. When they perceived his eye upon them, their heads would fall and they seemed unable to give him an equal gaze. Many seemed to have been beaten and their arms were painted with pink tinged scars. A reflection of what lay deep beneath. The women were thin, their cheeks sallow. They hid behind they men and would not move forward even to afford a closer view of their saviours.

'Nay,' he replied earnestly. 'I was sent by no one, but came in search of the man who lies there yonder. Do not give special mention to me for you have liberated yourselves and we were merely the catalysts.' His face burned and he motioned to leave the man.

The man's voice stopped him as he began to turn.

'And who was he? ' The man inquired, 'the man for whom you have travelled so far and for whom you have taken such risk.

'Just a man' Arun mused, although himself he believed it to be far from the truth. He had been rendered wary by the elf's warning. 'A man of noble bearing, who inspired great love in his friends, so much so that they would travel to the ends of the Earth in order to find him.'

'Aye.' The man replied, nodding carefully, his eyes wistful as though remembering a time long past. He seemed calmer now and more serious,

'He was a good man I think. He faltered; the words seemed difficult to come.

'He stood out in this accursed place, where all appear so dejected and broken. He suffered, more than most and yet held his head higher and worked harder. He had a quiet strength about him that the orcs and corsairs feared, despite their authority over him. They knew he was different, I could see the fear in their eyes when they beheld him.'

Again he winced at his own recollections as the memories jarred anew in his mind, suppressed for so long.

'They beat him, until he could not stand and could not see.' His face contorted at the memory. It was of shadow and suffering like all memories of Mordor. '

Each time we thought he would not come back to us. Yet when they left him for dead, each time he would rise and begin his struggle anew. I would wish one day to know who he was, for I should say that his stature gave me hope when hope seemed impossible.'

He seemed to swallow a sob and then whispered softly, as though he spoke only to himself.

'It is strange.'

He bowed his head for a moment in respect. Arun tried to encourage him, amazed by this shared feeling of hope and love for this man who nobody knew.

'What is strange?' he coaxed softly.

'I saw his fall. It felt as the end of all hope must. He must lie dead now, for none could survive such a fall. I know nothing of him and yet I feel his passing as though it were my father or brother. I do not comprehend it.'

Arun's heart was won and he turned back to inquire after the man who spoke with such warmth.

'What is your name?' he asked of the man.

The answer was strange and desperate. He mulled over the words as though they were new to his tongue, carefully considering his answer.

'It is many years now, or so I believe, since I saw beyond the gates of Mordor. I, when I was anybody was Eldacar of Gondor. The white city is now but a distant memory that soothed the hours of my sleep between the end of one hell and the beginning of the next.'

'Then we are kin by birth,' spoke Arun. 'I pity that you have not seen the white tower in all its glory for it is a sight that fills my heart with delight.' He recollected for a moment, and then added. 'I am Arun of Gondor.'

'Then brother, tell me, who is the man that accompanied you, for I have never seen his like before. He too is strong beyond mortal men, as the man you have come to find.'

'He is an elf of Mirkwood in the north.' Arun, so used to the presence of the elf now was surprised by the look of astonishment that was drawn across the man's face.It was not under many minutes that he could recover himself and continue his enquiry.

'Then how in the name of Iluvatar came he to be here, for so long as I have lived the Eldar have been represented as nothing more than an ancient memory, and they do not concern themselves with the trials of men. Yet now to see an elf so far from his home, and in the sole company of men, I can scarce believe it.'

'The man, I believe, was raised in Rivendell with the elves and therefore holds a special place between the two races. These two have known one another many years.'

'Then he must be great indeed, to have afforded the notice of the Eldar. For not lightly do the Eldar associate themselves with the dealings of men.'

'Aye,' agreed Arun, as he remembered his own surprise on finding himself in the company of an elf. 'There is a great love between the elf and the man and it is as though they are brothers or so the elf feels it to be. His passing signals a great grief to the elf and I do not know how he shall bear it.'

Eldacar turned to look at the stricken elf and shook his head, saying no more.

**A cry for help**

Again the oppression of spirits that accompanied the loss of this man that he did not know, threatened to overwhelm the young man. Overtaken by his the sense of loss, a voice emerged in the back of his mind; a voice he had not heard before.

Drawing his hands in front in prayer, he called out the words that he had never heard before. He called to the Valar, to Illuvatar, not to allow the passing of this man, who should not be lost to the world. He did not know why, but in this prayer he was more fervent that at any other time in his life. Tears, cold and stinging with salt clung to his cheeks in streams and he pleaded with the powers so distant from himself. The Valar did not concern themselves with the plight of men, and yet, somehow, he felt that his prayer would be answered. For many minutes he was lost in the maze of his own entreaty and was entirely taken over by it.

Around him those that remained had stopped their work and were watching him, wide eyed and fascinated. After five minutes he began to recognise his surroundings once more, and, feeling his hope fade once more, and the power of prayer empty from him, he made his way once more to where the elf rocked the body of his friend.

**Don't Let go**

Returning to Legolas' side, Arun noted with surprise that the chest of the man still rose and fell. Life still held on within the broken body, though it stood always on the brink.

'He lives yet?' He questioned more from surprise than with an answer in mind.

'Aye' murmured the elf, 'and yet with each passing moment he seems to fade and become weaker.' He continued. 'He is strong; too strong for his own good perhaps and the candle will not easily be snuffed. Yet I sense that his will is weak and he does not wish for life, neither does he know me, his companion and brother of so many years.'

Once more was the elf choked with grief, hiding his head within Aragorn's hair, so that the boy should not be exposed to his most fierce pain. He hoped that the youth should not seem him in his weakness, and with the revelation that his friend no longer knew him, Legolas did not know how he should face the world again with their questions and their sympathy.

'Go' he demanded voice muffled by his friend's hair and his own tears. 'There is nothing more for you to do here. Leave while you still may and let the Valar protect you so far that you might pass the black gate unnoticed.' He did not turn toward Arun even to bid him adieu, for his mind was no longer bent toward this world. So engrossed with his own grief he was that he could no longer consider the plight of others. His tear blurred eyes painted distorted pictures now.

'Nay' Arun was appalled and sickened by the sight of the forlorn elf who seemed to have lost his own will for life.

'I have followed you across Mordor, the dread land from whence no man has returned alive.' He was adamant and irate. He spoke in a new voice crisp like new snow and clipped with anger.

'I have followed you based alone on your faith that you were to find your friend still alive and that we should attempt to rescue him or die in the attempt. We are here, and against every odd his chest still rises and falls and yet you would give up and send me away. To leave you to what end?

His indignation now reached its height. 'I am willing; would be honoured; to die alongside you in the attempt, but I shall never stand by and allow you to lose your life and his own, through such selfish grief.'

Here he stopped to recollect his thoughts and to breathe a calming breath. He inhaled deep, closing eyes as he tried to force his own anger from him.

'So close to Mandos hall's he lies, and yet I do not believe that his body will allow him to slip away so easily. You should give more credence to his loyalty than that'

These words came to him and yet he did not know from where. The rise and fall of the chest was gentler still, as though only the lap of a river against a bank of gentle grass. Despite this he felt certain that all hope should not yet be lost, that even the black gate should be overcome and the man should not die within the realm of shadow. He had now the elf's full attention. His grey eyes, shining like a calm lake with his tears. They brimmed with fear and astonishment at the anger and assurance of Arun's words.

His voice was shaky as he exerted himself to overcome his grief.

'Arun, son of Hellian, I fear you are wiser than your years should allow. I think you were born for another time than this. A time when darkness did not threaten so. You are right, I owe you and he more than to allow his life to end in the realm of Sauron the deceiver. Yet I do not know how I should move him, lest I shatter the remains of his bones, surely he cannot survive the long road even as far as the gate.'

Legolas plaintive response, echoed in the empty expanse of grey Mordor and gently faded into empty silence. His own heart beat loud within his chest. It seemed to him that Sauron himself might hear the desperate beat of his heart. Even his tears were silent now, the expanse of silence only deepening his sense of the impossible enormity of removing Aragorn from this place.

**What came when I called**

Legolas rose gently and with such solemnity that it seemed he held middle earth within his arms. It felt as though he did, for the object he carried was as important. He strained expecting to find the body heavy and a burden for his light frame. Instead he winced with the nothingness of it. So light was the body that it felt as though he lifted a mere child and so fragile it seemed as if he were made of glass. Life seemed to have drained and yet within the chest there appeared now and again the flutter of a fretful heartbeat. The soul still lingered.

Legolas walked slow, as though the slightest deviation of balance might cause the feeble flame in his arms to be extinguished. The man's limbs hung at odd angles and Legolas feared that should the man live he might be causing him more damage. But now was not the time for such thoughts and he curved his mind away from the wrecked body of his friend. Instead he focused on their means for escape, gritting his teeth against the onslaught of images that tried over and over to pierce his mind. There Estel was always falling. He blew on the wind as a feather. Again and again he heard… felt, the jolt that shook the earth as he landed. Each thought threw the elf with pain and each moment he believed he might fall to the earth under the intensity of his grief. The man weighed nothing but the guilt upon his shoulders pressed with the weight of a troll. He would stop, breathe deep, shun his grief and then, opening his eyes to face the world anew, begin again his slow dance across the dusty earth.

Arun did not follow, though it was he who had urged the elf to exertion. He stood, eyes wide and fixed on the inexorable sky, so wide and vacant. His mind had urged prayer, though never before had he felt called upon to do so. He did not understand his new interest in the vastness above him and yet in the back of his mind a blurred whisper strained to be heard. Weak it was, so much that he thought it might be only the shallow sigh of the wind. But the air of Mordor was relentless and scorching. No such temperate breezes squeezed through the tight unforgiving air. The sky was streaked red and dark with evil. It lay many miles off and yet seemed so oppressive that it might touch the very hairs on the head.

Legolas looked back and noted the boy preoccupied with the immense emptiness above him and wished for movement. Impatiently he tried to move Arun along.

'Hurry boy,' He whispered as though the very air that scorched their lungs might betray them. 'For the eye of Sauron rests already upon us. I can feel his firey glare chill me to the quick. Wherefore do you stand so fixed by the empty sky.'

Seemingly the words had no effect. It was as though the youth stood removed from the world where none might touch him. He had eyes only for that which stood above, eyeballs fixed so earnestly it seemed he did not blink. Dust stung them painfully, seeking out the exposed retina but he stood unmoved awaiting something. Death, Legolas thought bitterly that was all that might be gained in Mordor. Having spoken so only a moment ago, how could the boy have suddenly given up?

Heavy hearted, tears still flowing from his face like the branches of trees he moved first one foot and then the other, beginning his long trudge through the dust of Mordor.

So caught up he was within his own dreams he did not hear the faint sound of feathers and the friction of the wind. He did not see the growing dot in the sky that had answered the cry for Mercy upon hope.

**End of part XV**


	16. XVI

**Part XVI**

**WHAT THE WIND BROUGHT**

**Gwaihir the Windlord**

The shadow that then fell over Mordor was neither cold nor empty and full of cruelty. The shadow of the Windlord was cool and inviting. His wingspan was wide and expansive; the beating of those wings stirred the air and forced resilience into every particle. He had come from another land beyond this world and he brought its presence with him as he flew. Valinor was blessed with the fair beauty of the elves and within the very strands of his feathers Gwaihir seemed to permeate that grace. To the eye that below beheld this awesome sight, the magnificent creature seemed invincible even as Mordor itself. The Morgai seemed but twigs bluntly screwed into the Earth in comparison with the inescapable majesty of what flew now above. The sky was full of wings and the ears of those below full of their beating.

All eyes, but two pairs, were, for that time bent on the majestic bird, fixed with religious intensity on legendary creature that came from beyond even their own dreams. Some had now no recollection but the grey slumber of slavery in Mordor, so long had they been without of the world. For others the thunder of wings against motionless air triggered a distant memory, learned from rote in a childhood classroom. Perhaps the memory was started by an ancient picture in a heavy book, that filled the nostrils with its dust and forced sneezing. Now legend flew above them, soaring for a moment heavy and powerful, flexing its wings as though the very fibres were enough to snuff the flames of the great eye.

Legolas attention was caught, not by the sound but by the sense of grace that infused the hot smothering air that tore at his dry throat. The sense of relief was like the sliding of cool water. Grief blocked his hearing and his sight, for those senses had been given over to his friend alone and none others might claim them. But even the formidable barriers of elvish grief could not ignore the call of the blessed realm and the grace of the creatures of Illuvatar. He faltered… doubted… then raising his head slowly so as not to cause himself more pain, he lifted his eyes to the sky and believed.

Arun's realization had come before the shadow in the sky, before even the beating of wings had marred the air. Even as Legolas had taken the burden of his friend's body within his arms, straining his knees to lift him from the dejected earth, Arun had felt such joy as he had never before felt in his life. It seemed that his fatigue had flowed from his bent shoulders and he stood not within the dread land of shadow, but outside of time. He knew their situation was beyond hope and yet hope shimmered in his mind taking on dazzling hue and blinding him to all other interference.

As the beating of wings slipped nearer he stood reverently still, eyes closed and lips seemingly unmoving. He basked in the heat of his own elation; at the startling response to his own prayers that had come from nothing. It was a moment he would strive unceasingly and unsuccessfully to recreate for the rest of his life. How much a man will sacrifice for a moment of such exquisite euphoria.

**Time like sand **

If an onlooker had viewed the scene in that small acre of Mordor it would seem to them that time had indeed escaped, for no movement could be detected in the beings that littered the ground, eyes fastened to the heavens. The sole movement was in the rigid circling of the vast bird that searched the scene as though hunting for prey. Spying a streak of blond hair and the glistening tears of grey eyes he sensed that his search had come to an end. Taking a sudden dive, followed by the sounds of awed gasps from beneath, the wind lord made his descent and landed quietly next to the stunned elf.

Time moved forward once more with a violent shudder as life caught hold of the slaves of Mordor and threw them into a whirl of amazement. Eyes no longer gazed upon the awesome sight of this otherworldly visitor but hid in embarrassment at their own bewilderment. The scene had become too uncomfortable, too personal for them and they sensed this was a meeting in which they were not to partake; they were merely privileged spectators from another world whose reality had momentarily clashed alongside that of another. In reverent silence they made the only concession they could and removed their prying eyes.

**The voice of the wind**

The voice of Gwaihir was soft like the breath of wind, too soft it seemed for such a bird that might screech to deafen the cries of men.

'I am come' he breathed. So gentle he was that even Legolas believed he might have heard nothing at all. His eyes alone remained fixed in cheerless wonder upon the great eagle arrived from beyond the edges of the earth.

He understood the look in the eagle's eye, marvelled at the tears that formed therein as it beheld the man in his arms. But it was all too much. With understanding came not action but a renewed sense of such helpless fatigue that his knees failed him and he sank silently to the ground, not like a stone but like a feather from the eagle's own wing. So light were the man and the elf that they seemed but a part of the air itself. He had focused everything, each ounce of energy that flowed from his body, on finding his friend, only to discover him beyond hope. To now be faced with such brazen hope; and with aid from beyond any realm of his imagination was too much to bear. His body could not acknowledge such a conflict of emotions as now presented themselves, and it shrank from the heavy oppression of astonishment beyond expectations.

The unconscious man still in his arms, Legolas found his knees had attached themselves to the earth with no intention of rising from it. His eyes alone did not fall to the biting earth but searched the weeping eyes of the eagle for the truth of the mirage that stood before him. It was not possible, his mind claimed aimlessly; perhaps this vision from paradise was just another incarnation of the evil of Mordor. 'Sauron the deceiver' they called him did they not. Perhaps this was a cruel game, the most brutal trick that he could have played; a mere amusement before he seized his ultimate victory and took two lives instead of one.

His eyes were sore from the effort of holding them open so long in disbelief but he feared to close them; that his hope might disappear. Life forced the choice upon him, his body acting where his mind did not wish. Blinking, he found that his field of vision had not changed. The Windlord stood yet before him, weeping still, as though his tears alone might heal the hurt of the many that had been enslaved.

With a soaring sweep of his mottled head the eagle surveyed the scene, the devastation of the empty ground and the black pits like dark eyes that watched threatening the majesty of the dark lord in this place at all times. He saw the shells of men scattered across the Earth like bones from a shipwreck. All had been thrown here by chance. His heart overflowed with pity for the lives of these men, although their paths had never before crossed. Turning his great neck back toward the elf his soft voice like butter whispered.

'It is time'.

**It is time**

Once again it seemed that Legolas body moved without the input of conscious thought. His knees lost their feeling of lead and were able to raise themselves once more. Taking sluggish steps, (his mind still struggled with the path his feet would take) he gently lifted himself from the gnawing earth and made toward the eagle. He had no expectations of what might follow only an automatic desire to follow the light offered by the eagle.

On reaching the eagle, reality and guilt hit the elf as a club from a goblin. So shattered had his mind been by his own grief, so consuming, that all else had been forgot. Now, his eyes led his aching heart to survey the land around him. It was so grey, so dense with dust that his throat hurt from the mere thought. The monotony was only broken by the brown hint of a man, watching the great eagle with covert fear. Bent they seemed and so frail in comparison to the life force that now stood in Mordor that Legolas believed that they instead might be part of Sauron's mirage. Taking in the suffering on their faces, the ache of wrinkles sprung too young, the mournful downturn of their eyes, his knees nearly gave way once more. He read in their faces what he must have read in Estel's should his eyes have been open and alert.

Only the touch of a wing brushing against his forehead brought him back to the question of leaving. Frantically he remembered the man in his arms; his sole purpose in Mordor. Fingers hurried to the man's neck desperately searching out a pulse. He waited body tensed in anxiety, he thought he felt nothing, believed that life had filtered away. Then a fluttering under his fingers; the tension subsided and he felt flaccid once more.

'Come,' the Windlord commanded. His voice was soft, but demanding now and Legolas realized that his time for waiting was over. For a second he brimmed with hope at the thought of leaving Mordor, of being beyond the gate. But remembering the weight within his arms hope turned to fear and pain once more.

Arun! He had forgotten the boy? How could he? After all they had seen together. In the midst of so much wonder and pain the thought of his companion seemed to have fallen from his head. Now it returned with frightening intensity. He could not leave him stranded within this desolate country, not after he had fought so hard to protect him from it.

It took another gentle touch of a wing feather to focus his attention once more. There was so much grief inside his soul that he found it increasingly impossible to exert himself, only the warming touch of the feathers seemed to offer him the possibility of relief.

'Do not burden your mind any longer with thoughts of their safety. The Valar do not concern themselves with the world of men; but for his sake and for the sake of the prayer for his life they will not be lost to the wrath of Sauron. My brother,' he motioned to the sky and to a circling shadow in the lengthening darkness, 'will lead them to safety beyond the gate. For Sauron is not yet so strong that he shall not fear the wrath of the Valar.'

A motion around his shoulder caused Legolas attention to be lost for a moment. So gentle he thought it might have been a fly that had landed upon him. It was a hand. A hand barely devoid of boyhood but that would grow broader and thicker given time. It was the hand of the boy who had followed him beyond fear to find what he sought.

Motioning to the bird, Arun coaxed gently.

'You must go, for this is the answer to all our prayers. I accompanied you to save him, now you have your chance and I would not for all the kingdoms of the world rob it from you. I trust to the mercy that has been brought upon us, and I believe I shall lead these people from this land of slavery, Valar willing.'

His words were stalwart, full of adult understanding and nobility, as though he had reached the peak of wisdom and could not go beyond. Legolas trained his eye with pride and admiration on this youth who had grown so much in such a time. Great things should be expected of this one. He was right, today was not the day they should be lost to Mordor.

'We shall meet again son of Hellian,' the words flowed from the elf's mouth and at once he was certain of their truth.

'We have passed a dangerous path together and you have proved yourself to be faithful in every way. None other but one has shown greater strength and loyalty to me than you. Go now in peace and regain the comfort of your family. Send word to Rivendell of your safe return and you shall not be far from my thoughts.'

Arun did not reply but reached out and touched the elf's shoulder, offering a final act of condolence and reassurance before the long miles that were to separate them.

With a swish, and in one stunning motion the gnarled claws, giant, overpowering, lifted the elf from the ground. Legolas clung to the leathery skin and pulled himself upward still cradling the man in his arms. Settling eventually between the great feathers, so large they might have been his own bed cover, he nestled between the comforting softness and Gwaihir began to gather height.

**End of Part XVI**


	17. XVII

**Part XVII**

**HOME COMING**

**Imladris**

Lord Elrond had lost count of the days that he had stood on the balconies of Rivendell, searching the distance for any sign of a horse. His ears tried to pierce the enveloping silence, but to no avail. Rivendell was not empty. His sons remained with him and it was brimming with life. Still, Elrond could not sleep peacefully, something had been missing from his life for many months now, and his chest was a little tighter with worry each morn that Estel did not return. He had promised to be home by the late autumn.

Elrond had heard from his son when he had left Mirkwood in the late summer, informing him that he would go to the rangers and thence make his way homeward, bringing with him the prince of Mirkwood, Legolas. Now it was early February and ice was melting from the trees in gentle streams. As he stood, eyes on the horizon, a drip small like a pearl fell and gently squeezed its way down the back of his cloak. The tingling sensation of the sudden cold water shocked Elrond out of his silent reverie and he shook himself. Turning in surprise he felt the warm strong pulse of a hand upon his shoulder.

What he saw when he looked was like a mirror image of himself. Elrohir stood, anxiety seeping through the forced smile upon his ageless face.

'The darkness paints such hopeful mirages Ada does it not?' His smile narrowed into a wince. 'But at first light it is empty as always.'

Its seemed the Elrond had not heard him for his dark eyes were once more turned toward the barren horizon that yielded nothing across Bruinen. He had awaited the arrival of his son too often and with too much anxiety to be easy at this moment. Had this been the first time, he might have assumed that his son had merely forgotten the time, but Middle Earth was too dangerous and his son too daring and loving for that to be possible.

'He will come yet.' Elrohir pushed all the optimism he lacked into those words, desperate to ease his father's disquiet, understanding the fear he felt every time Estel rode off into the distance. He had seen his brother carried home, unable even to form his own steps too often to quieten his own fear now and he found it increasingly difficult to hide his thoughts from his father. 'He always has.'

Elrond's mood was dark and his terror dreadful. His son's fate had visited his dreams again the last night and he had awoken with black thoughts for his safety.

'It takes but one instance of no return, my son. Death takes mortals but once and never to return. For once Mandos takes them they go beyond the knowledge of the elves.' Elrohir knew this of course, nonetheless the bitter words did not fail to shake him and he visibly shuddered for the loss of his brother, as he father had done so long ago when Elros had left him for Mandos' Halls.

'Your words touch my chest like the steel of a knife Ada,' his son spoke voice deadened by his father's words, 'and yet even so I shall not believe him to be gone so far, for in my heart I should know had he passed on. He is my brother whether by blood or not and so his passing should move me beyond the anxiety I feel now. Do not allow such bitter thoughts yet.' His consoling speech was interrupted by a new noise far away at present but unmistakably the beating of large wings.

**Remind me that I live**

When the Windlord landed on the icy grass of Imladris Elrond knew and feared what he was to see. He could not look. Surely the arrival of such a marvel could signal nothing but the worst news. He could not bear it, not again, dragging his son from the very jaws of death as they bit at his clothes, gnawed at his fingers. Worse, he imagined that the winged messenger might carry… but no… he would not think it.

Gritting their teeth against the pain of the sight that both had convinced themselves was to befall them Father and son turned at the same moment. Though his father had seen the might of the great eagles of the wind before, Elrohir had never experienced their majesty. Seconds passed and he was too overawed to move.

Not so for Elrond, after his initial unwillingness he dashed forward, it seemed to his son that his feet barely moved the grass beneath them. What he saw removed his breath even before it had left his lungs. A heartbroken elf filled his vision, his face grey with dust or anxiety, Elrond knew not which. Wisps of blond hair snaked across his face wet from the tears that were falling freely. The tears marred his delicate, pale skin with grimy stains a dark reminder of the place he had come from. His arms clasped something tightly within them, so precious it seemed that he might squeeze the life from it with his hold.

Elrond first noticed the idle strands of dark hair. Next he took in the shreds of a green tunic turned dark and stained that still remained upon bruised skin. He knew the skin, changed as it was. He closed his eyes, refusing to take in the vision that blocked all other thoughts in his mind.

It was a voice that brought him to life again.

'Legolas?' Elrohir's stunned voice cried in recognition of the stained elf before his eyes. The Mirkwood elf did not even raise his head as he slid from the soft feathers of the eagle. His knees, still weak from grief found they would not stand and he settled in the cold grass of the winter morning without a thought for the bite of the cold grass through his thin tunic. Mordor had been stifling, ice was a blessing – it reminded him that he lived.

Elrohir had seen his brother beaten and broken many times, but each time did not decrease the awful jolt of terror he received with each vision. With each new breath the sorrow, the grief and fear for his life renewed itself. He could scarcely hold his own knees from connecting with the floor too.

The body was small, or so it seemed. Smaller than they remembered, with skin that seemed shrunk and stretched across the bones that protruded at odd angles. In places they peered through the skin. White like the whites of eyes they appeared, fixing their glare on the onlookers. They were stark in contrast with the dark bruises splashed like dripping paint across large areas of exposed skin, only interrupted by the map of welts and scar that tracked across the man's limbs. All areas of exposed skin seemed delicately patterned with such frightening decorations. Looking closer you might notice that a rib poked through angry skin, it flared red in warning. The rib was white and blank. Dark clouds like bruises danced across the chest and it seemed that all his blood was collected there. His eyes were firmly closed, his face spattered with blood, black as mud. Round his mouth there was a dark stain, it seemed to have mixed with blood until it was disguised but in places it remained like ink and not. There was a sour smell about it, it smelled like its colour.

Elrond strained his sight but could not tell if the chest still rose and fell. The scene before him was so silent, so terrible it was almost holy. He did not wish to break the moment, fearing what the truth of it would be. Leaning forward he took the wrist of his son in his hand. It flopped within his grip. He felt sick as he grasped the segments of bone within like broken twigs. Gently, he placed his fingers against the gnarled skin. There was nothing. He waited. Then there was something. A gentle tap against his skin, so dim he thought he had imagined it. It fluttered again and he believed.

Gently he took his boy in his arms. Like Legolas before him he had braced himself against the weight of his son. When his arms did not strain he had to step back a pace, so much weight had his son lost. Motioning to his son he turned and with his heart heavy at the task before him Elrond turned and made toward houses of healing.

**By your side**

The size of the bed alarmed him with its mortifying comparison with the thin limbs of its inhabitant. Elrond leaned down and placed his son into the empty white sheets with the skill of an artist. He feared every movement made to the body, lest the bones should shatter more than they had already. If he lived, how would he heal, might he be deformed forever from bad handling. If he lived…? The words tore his own composure, threatening his abilities to help his son. If he was to do anything he needed reason before all else. He could not be blinded by grief for his son.

On entering the building, a group of elves immediately came to the aid of Elrond. On noticing the man within his arms they held back a moment in alarm. Like Lord Elrond they had seen the sight of the injured man too many occasions before and like him each one brought with it the same horror and grief at a young life so needlessly endangered.

On regaining his composure, at least enough to recall what was needed; Elrond began barking instructions at his healers with impatient authority. He felt the man's weakening pulse with every breath that he took himself. The nigh imperceptible flutter of the man's chest was becoming increasingly erratic, straining his strong eyes Elrond could barely make it out. Blood was still fleeing from some of the wounds where his bones appeared; where it flowed it was tinged with black. There was some kind of poison or drug here that was causing it flow where blood should have stopped. His heart would stop for several minutes at a time before receiving a reminder in the form of a jolt from the body and forcing itself to beat.

One of his broken ribs had pierced a lung and causing wisps of air to come seeping from his chest. Elrond placed his hand on his son's damp forehead. It seemed that he touched lit coals. Sweat mixed with the blood thereon creating a sickly paste. Fever had set in deep like winter snows, ensnaring and trapping the body within its fiery grip. The eyes beneath the soft lids did not register light but jumped oddly in confusion as they were held open.

'Athelas, quick.' Elrond demanded so fast he did not breathe. The bones could be set later but he needed to discover what poison was turning his son's own blood against him and break this imprisoning fever.

Elladan and Elrohir quickly followed him into the room, determined to fight for their brother's life even if he did not. They busied themselves preparing the herbs for their father and uravelling the bandages he had demanded. Inactivity was their worst fear now, for it meant to them that the fight was over.

None perceived the shadow like presence of Legolas in the corner of the room, his grey tinged skin merged into the shadows and he seemed a spirit like presence watching over his friend. His eyes were circled black with fatigue but his gaze was wide and did not shift from the body that held all their attention.

**Tell me a different story**

A shadow against the wall made him jump, despite himself. The shadow was tall and slender, elf like it seemed. A worried expression flitted across Elladan's flushed features.

'Legolas you look awful,' Elladan spoke the truth that worried him him. The elf seemed to have no pride left in his appearance. Estel's blood was smeared across his hands and his tunic, his own had slid down his forehead and dried. His hair had long fallen from the braids that had held them back. Its golden strands were limp and dark, damp from his continual tears and covered in a thin layer of grey dust. The glow of the elf too was faint and seemed also grey tinged.

There was no reply. The elf, in his grief, appeared beyond expression.

'Go,' Elladan coaxed gently, trying to avoid the terrible pain within the deep grey eyes. 'You will do Estel no good half alive and he will be safe with Ada. You must rest or we shall have to treat you too.' Elladan tried to make light of the situation, pushing the elf with friendly jest. Legolas took a step back but did not leave. His eyes remained on the bed in the center of the room, looking through Elladan as though he was a sheet of thin glass.

Elrond's attention was aroused by the quiet struggle going on in the corner. He could see that Legolas, though exhausted beyond measure, could not rest. He motioned to Elladan to leave him and continue treating his brother. Elrond then made his way from his son's side – if Legolas was intent on remaining perhaps he could at least shed some light on Estel's condition. The poison particularly baffled Elrond and he knew not how to treat it. He feared to imagine how his son had been brought to this condition but he needed to know – even if it broke his heart.

'Legolas.' The commanding presence of the Elf Lord seemed to bring Legolas from his dreadful reverie. He turned and fixed his eyes on the desperate eyes of Elrond, a link of understanding and helplessness drew them together and although they used no words they felt one another's pain.

'Please,' Elrond begged at last, daring the courage to hear the answer. 'How came my son by these injuries. What has happened to him? Were you there?' Questions jostled in his mind for importance. He wanted to know everything. He wanted to stand by the side of his son understanding his pain.

Legolas expression crumpled as he swelled with the pain of his months of searching, the ache of finding his friend beyond help. Helplessness betrayed him and fresh tears sprang to his aching eyes.

'He was taken.' His voice faltered at the enormity of his struggle. 'I think,' his mind blurred and the words were lost in the mists of pain. 'I think, it was corsairs. They came in the night. I was drugged, he moved me while I slept.' Legolas weak body nearly fell beyond help at this reminder of his friend's needless action. His own proximity to the abyss slammed into him with full force, as he comprehended how he had come to being taken.

'When I awoke he was gone. I was sluggish and still suffering from the effect of the drug. I think it was the drug you smell upon his breath.' The smell, at this reminder filled his nostrils and he felt ready to vomit.

'I know not what it was but it was powerful. It blurred the thoughts until memories were forgotten. I was taken by it for many hours. I fear I do not know how much he has ingested. My mind was too hazy to follow and I fell into a deep slumber. When I awoke I believe he had already been carried many miles. Eventually I found their trail. They were took him to…'

Here the sentence abruptly stopped. Legolas tongue simply would not allow him to repeat the word that haunted him so. He rounded his lips and tried to spit the dreaded utterance from his lips, but they refused to oblige him. Elrond continued with his steadfast gaze upon the elf and lifted a reassuring hand to place upon Legolas' shoulder.

'Mordor' the word stood alone, echoing in the empty air. At its sound even the birds outside seemed to stop their twittering. The air in the healing room became empty and cold. All stopped their activity. Elladan and Elrohir stood, bandages unraveling in their hands, mouths wide as pits sank open in horror. It was the last word they had expected to hear and the most fearsome.

Elrond lost himself. He was there again, that moment two thousand years ago. He was standing on the brink of Mordor, the dread land, whose name none dared speak. He was looking over the Dagorlad preparing for battle. A change was coming; perhaps all hope would be lost. His hair fluttered in the wind and his mouth was dry with dust. Another time flashed before his eyes. He was standing with Isildur on the edge of Mount Doom. Mordor stuck to his hair and stung his eyes; he would never be clean again. Its evil stole the mind of Isildur and evil had been allowed to dwell. The land was barren and hopeless, grey like shadow in was unrelenting in the pain it caused, cutting their skin and filling their lungs with cold dust. He remembered.

'Mordor' the word slipped from Elrond's own lips amid the memory. His eyes pleaded with the elf before him, begged him to tell that it was not so. But no such healing utterances came from Legolas. He turned his eyes away from Elrond's horror back to the bed in the middle of the room and flushed with the pain of revelation.

'I traveled many miles.' He found the strength to continue. 'With me I took a boy from Gondor, that I had taken from the clutches of the corsairs. He too was thither bound. We traveled beyond the black gate and there… we found him thus.' He tailed off, his story seemed complete and his jarring thoughts refused to relive the pain any longer.

Elrond broke from his nightmarish visions to ask a final question. 'Was he thus when you found him, broken beyond measure?'

Legolas eyes, heavy with weeping turned once again to the elf Lord and read his breaking composure. He did not know whether to continue, for he felt already Elrond's strength weakening. He did not know how much more the elf Lord could hear of his son's fate.

'I do not know how he fared in Mordor, except that when I found him his body was thus scarred. The eyes of other slaves and my own heart told me that he had suffered greatly though I do not know how. I arrived only to see him fall. He fell beneath my own eyes and crashed with the ground beneath. A troll came, his foot hung over Estel, but I did not see the damage that was thereby caused. I heard only the crack of his ribs and the cries of his pain.'

Legolas was filled with a swooping sensation. He was falling again. His friend's body swung just out of his reach and he followed. Alone in the air nausea crept over his body. He could not sense the land. The freedom was intoxicating and terrorizing. He felt he might fall forever. His knees grappled once more with his weight and his heavy pain filled consciousness freed him. The elf sunk to the floor with a crash echoing Estel's own connection with the earth of Mordor. The freedom of falling was the last thing he remembered.

On the bed in the middle of the room, between weeping elves Estel did not know the battle that continued for his life. He was not a part of it. He burned with fever and firey visions of night. His dreams were red and black and he was slipping backwards constantly. He fell. He would never stop falling.

**The end**

**(of this story anyway - but I won't keep you waiting for too long to find out what happens to them all! Wait for 'Twelve Memories')**


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